


In Which No One Trains a Dragon

by SheisaCShelz



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010)
Genre: A very strange canon AU, F/M, Marvel Norse Lore, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 62,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheisaCShelz/pseuds/SheisaCShelz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing came of that night five years ago, to Hiccup's bitter disappointment.  Nothing changed.</p>
<p>At least until now, and with his father's untimely death, his crush's ascension to the chiefdom, his worst nightmare up close and personal, a prophecy gone wrong, and the gods' meddling, nothing seems any better.  In fact, things have turned much worse.</p>
<p>In other words: when HTTYD and adulthood hit Berk's teens at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So Canon AU seems like a stupid thing to say, but that was the best I could do to describe this story. It stays true to the characters and Berk's situation...time changes things, I guess. And so does the fact that Toothless can still fly.
> 
> First chapter's a teaser prologue, by the way. It takes place in the middle of the story.

Venomous.  The word that described Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third right then and there was  _venomous_ .

“What do you mean _why_?” he asked, incredulity dripping from his tone like poison off a snake’s fangs.  “What in Odin’s name makes you think it would be a _good idea_?”

Astrid opened and closed her mouth a few times, unable to get the words past her throat.  Where was her sense of tact?  Where was her diplomacy?  Her years of training?

The embers glowed and the fire crackled.  The weedy man across from her waited for a few minutes, hands curled around his tools, although they were still for once.  Those hands were constantly poking and prodding and doing something, but now they were silent.

Astrid twisted her head uncomfortably.

“Oh, no, Astrid.  Let’s say it like it is.”  Hiccup finally pushed his project aside, facing Astrid fully with eyes as toxic as those of a certain black dragon that could send chills down her spine.  “A union between the Haddocks and the Hoffersons would be very beneficial for you.  It’s a good way to solidify your leadership, first of all.  Second, I come from a chief’s family, so I of course have the resources to provide for you as you build up your own.  And your parents approve of me.

“It would be beneficial for me,” he continued.  “The Hoffersons aren’t badly off, either, and it would strengthen my political position, too.  And you are beautiful.”

Astrid’s heart beat a little quicker, an angry red hue flushing her cheeks.  “Fine,” she answered, shuddering a little on the inside.  “Yes.  You just said it yourself.  What makes this a bad idea?”

Hiccup’s mouth worked a little, but instead of having nothing to say, he couldn’t seem to decide what words to grace the night with next.  “ _What do you think marriage is?_ ” he asked, enraged, and now his voice was low and full of hate.  Venom.  “By the gods, are you my father’s daughter.”

“How dare you…”  Astrid’s blood was boiling and her lips pulled into a snarl as fierce as the Night Fury’s.  “Your father is – was – a great man!  You were _so_ _lucky_ to have him for a father, and if you can’t see that-!” Astrid cut herself off, challenging him, just daring him to challenge her.  They were like two deadly dragons in a standoff, spines raised and teeth displayed, trying to tear down the other with their eyes alone.

“I didn’t have him,” Hiccup hissed back, stalking around the counter to mirror her.  “He was nothing to me!”

A sharp crack echoed through the forge.

Hiccup slowly turned to look at her again, matching her glare for glare.  His cheek was already beginning to show a bright pink mark, brighter than the flush from the forge’s heat and the anger that raced through him hot as ice.  “He was nothing to me,” he repeated.  “Just as I was nothing but another mouth to feed, a weakling who couldn’t pull his own weight to him.  I was as good as the street rats on the docks!  I’m his shame, his embarrassment, I’m his _failure_ , Astrid.”

The hate in his eyes scared her.

“And _you_ were his _success_.”

Astrid’s fists trembled.  “I can’t believe you think that lowly of him.  You aren’t even worth a rat’s ass.”

She hated his smile, the way the left side pulled up and the right one didn’t.  She hated him, she hated him, _she hated him_.  “And that’s the kind of attitude I just managed to escape from.  So if you think I’m going to marry you because it makes sense, then you are insane.”  Here he paused, letting the salt fester in her open sore.  “You are just like _him_.”

Astrid was breathless with rage.  How _dare_ he say that as an insult.  How dare he, how _dare_ he be like _this!_

“You… _you_ …”  For a long moment, words didn’t come, but then they poured.  “I don’t know why he even bothered with you!  I don’t know how he put up with you!  Oh, wait a moment, yes, YES I DO!  Because he is a CHIEF, and regardless of what a little $H*T@$$ YOU turned out to be, he was a DECENT MAN!”

“…”

“…”

Hiccup wasn’t like the other Vikings.  It was his curse to always be different, and this was no exception.  He was angry, but he didn’t roar and rage and throw his fists or the furniture around.  He stood silently, dangerously, the curves in his posture emitting danger signals with a subtlety that a true Viking could never achieve, but somehow still woke up that primal instinct to stay away.  His green eyes revealed nothing of the calculations and possibilities and words that ran through his mind.

“I never said he wasn’t a decent man.  All I said is that he was a terrible father.”

Astrid was very good at keeping a clear head, and anger always seemed to sharpen it.  She knew what Hiccup needed to take home, and she knew what her next words to drive the point home would be.  “You were a terrible son,” she put it bluntly.  “You could never do anything right, you always had to go out there and screw everything up.  It’s just who you are, Hiccup.”  Her lip curled a little.  “No wonder he hated you.”

She wished she had seen his face, but his back was turned to her and instead all she could see was the way his spine arched a little as he growled.  He turned to face her, eyes breathtakingly narrow.  “You asked me what my answer is, and my answer is _no_.  I will never marry you, Astrid Hofferson.  Given what you’ve turned out to be, I highly doubt anyone ever will.  Except Snotlout, whom I highly suggest.  You want a political marriage and all he wants is a hot piece of your ass.  You should be very satisfied with each other.”

His eyes narrowed even further, the eyebrows drawing sharp diagonals below the hair that dangled down his forehead, and he leaned forward, breath hot against her face.

_“Now get the Hel out of my home.”_


	2. This Future

There was a flash of blue-ish, purple-ish white and then there was nothing, nothing but the fire.

Everything was on fire.  The neon oranges and unnatural yellows consumed the world around him, the flames reaching for the sky, like devil’s fingers.  The shredded houses were burnt orange.  The midnight sky was ashy black.  The low clouds were made of heavy, thick smoke.  Even the green grass looked red, red, red, like blood below him.  The acrid stench of soot and burnt flesh filled his lungs like a deep, spreading stain, making him choke.  Instinctively, he drew in deep breaths, but there was no air to be found.  Only the giant inferno.

Even the young woman beside him, trying to pull him up, blazed.  Her golden hair reflected the flames and her expression burned with anger and worry and _ferocity_.  Her skirt shone burgundy and her red shirt was stained, growing dark under the smears and drops of vibrant blood.

Her eyes, however, were the color of water.  Cool, collected…capable of extinguishing every screaming ember in a single, crushing wave.  Seeing them here in this Ragnarok was like being doused with a wave of soothing relief.

Stoick grunted as he turned, fiery side screaming with the rest of the world.

“Astrid,” he spoke over the woman’s senseless words.  “You have to promise.”

His voice was thick with pain, and blood.  He forced the words up his smoke-clogged throat, past the red and black sludge, hacking them out.  It was the last thing he had to ask, the last thing she had to do.  She had to do it.

“Promise me.”

He couldn’t hear her over the roaring of the fire and the warcries of the humans and screams from the dragons that rang dimly in his ears below the sound of a splintering world, but he could see the words cross her lips.  Four syllables.

He wanted to say more.  He wanted to call _her_ Chief.  He wanted to swell with pride at how she spoke the words sealing her path while standing amidst the flames that were her kingdom, with strength and surety.  He wanted her to know how worthy she was of the faith he put in her.

“STOICK!”

Gobber hobbled up, axe-for-a-hand swinging wildly for a moment before the man saw the state Stoick was in.  Jolly Gobber, crazy Gobber…his battle-brother stepped out from the flames that were the rest of the world, standing next to the young woman, face solemn, eyes unusually serious.  Despite his head-in-the-clouds act, the blacksmith was much more firmly in touch with reality than he seemed, and Stoick was grateful that he was here, like a silent Witness, an experienced Guide for the young chief beside him.

Gobber stood by her shoulder.

The fire died down, the world becoming a black graveyard of ashy earth under his fingers.  Stoick’s eyes widened as licks of flames smoldered down and one of the silent silhouettes – one of his people – stepped forward.  A slight one, a stumbling one…like a sick, wasted ambassador of rot and death, coming for the dying warrior that waited for him.

No, it was Hiccup!  Not a draugr sent to drag him away, it was just _Hiccup_ who rushed to him, haphazardly swinging around weapons and narrowly ducking under the teeth and claws from above, hands held out to help, to fix him, but they hovered, not daring to touch.

Instead, Hiccup’s oak leaf gaze sought out his.  It was like looking into the eyes of a child – Stoick could see the sorrow and raw hurt, the listless wishes Hiccup always seemed to carry.  Hiccup had always been like an open book, easy to read, impossible to understand – _like Valka, came a muted whisper_ – and above all, un-Vikingly.  Vikings didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves.  They never showed fear, but Hiccup’s wide, shocked eyes were full of it.  A forest fire blazed across their glossy surface, wild and out of control.

Stoick didn’t know how such a boy was his son, but by the gods, _this was his son_ and he would see to it that Hiccup was protected.

The firestorm flared and Stoick could do nothing but take it, but the boy was safe, and the village would be safe and that was the reason Stoick didn’t face it.  He couldn’t drag himself back up onto his feet.  He couldn’t turn his head.  He couldn’t speak.

He breathed in…and breathed out…and breathed in…and breathed out…and breathed in…

Astrid bowed her head in respect.

…and breathed out…

Stoick the Vast, Chief of Berk, High Terror of the Northern Seas, Slayer of Beasts, was gone.

 

* * *

 

Astrid snarled as she stalked in the direction of the fight, slim figure cutting through the worked-up crowd like a hot knife through butter.  “Back off!”

No one heard her.

“YEH SLUDGE-EATING LIMPET, I’LL-!”

“-ARRRRRRRRRRGH!”

The audience gasped as Astrid **_slammed_** her axe between the overly-muscled men’s weapons with a ‘shing!’ and twisted, taking advantage of the weight and shape of her axe head to make the duo’s pike and sword clatter to the ground.  The men jumped back, suddenly seeming to realize that she was there and while her much smaller form was easy to ignore, the glare they received demanded their compliance.

Astrid’s blood seemed to boil, just itching for a fight.  She could already feel a head ache coming on.

“Ack, what happened?” she demanded.

“I tweren’t doin nothing, Ch-, uh…”  In a mere second, the stocky, red-haired man went from defensive to unsure.

Astrid yelled at Hiccup in the back of her mind for making her life harder than it had to be.  “Astrid.”

“Astrid, I was carting my apples down to the center when HE-“ Ack thrust an accusing finger in the direction of the long, blonde-haired man in front of him, “-rammed into my wheel and then went on without so much as a by-your-leave!”

Indeed, Astrid saw an upturned cart with a swiveling wheel that looked about ready to hop off itself.  Apples were still rolling down the hill.

“Sven, what happened?” she repeated, keeping her tone.  Remember, treat both sides the same first.  Then decide.  Half the job of chief is listening.

There was a moment of silence before the other offender spoke.

“I was herding my sheep up the hill.  A couple scattered and when I was running off after one, I ran into Ack’s cart.”  While soft-spoken, Silent Sven was still very formidable as he glared back at Ack.  “I did not have time to do anything else, but he stopped me from continuing to find my sheep so now they're probably running rampant throughout the village!”

Astrid took a deep breath, refusing to massage her temples as her veins sung at her to leap and swing.  “Sven, apologize to Ack for damaging his cart.”

Ack was triumphant.  Sven was stubborn.

Astrid slammed the butt of her axe on the ground, letting the metal ring against the stone.  _“Now.”_

“…I apologize for running into your cart.”  The words were grudging and Sven was definitely not happy.

But before Ack could do a victory dance and Sven could skulk off, Astrid spoke up again.  “Ack, apologize to Sven for not paying attention.”

Ack’s mouth hung open.

Astrid gave him the exact same unyielding glare she had given Sven.

“I’m-I’m sorry for not paying attention,” Ack managed to stutter out.

“Good.”  Astrid gave a nod of finality.  “Now next time, both of you look where you are going.  Sven, maybe recruit some young help to herd your sheep through the village.  Ack, be aware of the people bustling through the same space you are.  Are we agreed?”

As the crowd dispersed, Astrid stood still for a moment, watching Sven attempt to gather his sheep and Ack try to get all his apples.  She knew what this fight had really been about: absolutely nothing.

Tempers were running hot.  The village’s irritation level was high.  Already boisterous, the death of the Chief was pushing them to violent.  She walked stiffly through the village, only half paying attention to the damage she was supposed to be assessing.  The song in her blood was too distracting, demanding that she STOP.  FIGHT.  Mourn.

“HOARK!” she roared, a bit more harshly than she really wanted to.

The bulky man jumped, staring down at her from his spot on the roof, hammer in hand.  “Aye…”

“Astrid,” Astrid announced for the fifth time that morning.  She jerked her head at the ground.  “I need to speak with you.”

Bright, sunny day, she reminded herself as the ladder creaked under the burly Viking’s weight.  Winter coming.  Preparations to see to.

“Aye, Astrid,” Hoark repeated once his feet hit the ground.  “What can I do for you?”

“Winter’s approaching,” she told him, unnecessarily, but it helped her think.  “Mulch just told me the storage numbers.  Sven gave me a good estimate of the livestock a bit before.”

Hoark’s face sombered.  This man had children, Astrid remembered.  A five-year-old, a two-year-old, and another on the way.  His children were never wanting for food because he was the village’s best hunter, but that didn’t mean he never worried.  “It’s bad?”

Astrid hesitated, unsure of what to say.  She immediately summoned Stoick’s voice in her mind.

“It’s bad,” she said, almost hearing Stoick’s deep voice beneath her own.  “At this rate, we won’t be able to last the winter.  When push comes to shove, we can sacrifice more livestock this winter and make up for it come spring, probably from the mainland.”

“The Peaceable Farmers?” Hoark suggested.

Astrid nodded.  “Even easier.”  She glanced up at the other workers on the roof, knowing that they couldn’t hear her over the savage hammering but lowering her voice all the same.  “Hoark, if we don’t get more food, we’re going to have to dig really deep into our stocks this winter, and then there will be no guarantee we can survive the next one.  I need a hunting party.”

“How long and how many?” the hunter asked.

“As long as we can spare,” she answered.  “In fact, I’m thinking we might have two hunting parties, ten to fifteen Vikings each.  Mine will hunt on the island.  Yours will head south.  See what you can find down there.”

She was hyperaware of Hoark’s stare.  “Astrid, we’re getting very close to winter!  We can’t afford-“

“We can’t afford the risk of depending only on the game on this island,” Astrid interrupted.  “I know winter’s coming in a month.  I’m counting on it to not be early, and I know that’s a gamble, but we need this.  That said, I only want you to stay out there as long as the weather’s good.  This is going to be quick.  Get in, find as much as you can, and get back.  I trust your judgment, Hoark.”

“…Alright,” he agreed finally.  “I’ll gather the men willing to go with me and find some good hunters to go with you.”

“Thanks,” Astrid said.

Hoark sent her an amused look.  “Don’t thank me, Astrid.  Chiefs don’t thank people for following orders.  And you may not be the official chief yet,” he added when she opened her mouth.  She felt her grip on the axe strapped to her lower back tighten at the reminder.  “But we’re Vikings.  We don’t need a big ceremony.  We trust Stoick and Stoick trusted you.  You’re already Chief in our eyes.”

She nodded curtly in response as he turned away again, disappearing between the houses.

She would train at the end of the day, she promised her tight muscles and twitching hands.  In the forest, just like she always did, she would vent her rage at the dragons on the silent woods.  She forced the satisfying crunch of an axe landing deep in a tree to leave her ears.

Astrid jumped, glancing around.  That hadn’t been in her head.

Clueless stood off to her left, collecting the wooden debris and chopping the larger pieces into kindling.  He nodded to her, black bangs swinging down into his face.  She nodded back, eyes searching for his parents.  A sharp bang made her look up at the roof.

“Hey, Clueless!” she called, deciding not to bother the adult Clorknogs.

“Hmm?”

Astrid felt that little knot of irritation tighten at Clueless’s vague response.  She didn’t know where his parents had pulled that name from, but it was very apt, either because Clueless was naturally vacant or because he liked to live up to it.  “Have you seen Phlegma?”

The blue-eyed boy thought for a moment.  “Phlegma who?”

Phlegma Who-Did-He-Think?  Astrid’s grip on her axe became tight again, the familiar wood acting like a stress ball.  “Phlegma the Fierce,” she said with as much patience as she could summon.

He thought for another minute as his new chief stood to the side, her hands twitching more with each passing moment.  Dear Thor, she swore as she waited for his dazed eyes to refocus, may I never have to ask him for anything ever again.

“Nope,” he finally answered, dragging the word out.  He glanced at her and shrugged.  “Sorry.”

Astrid felt less than charitable as she continued on her way, leaving the infuriating boy without saying a word.  She couldn’t stand his laziness, the way he always dawdled as though he had all the time in the world.  Still…

Remember what Hoark said, she told herself, squashing that tiny little bit of guilt at her un-chiefly conduct.  Besides, Clueless seemed completely unconcerned by her almost rude exit, if the mellow chops coming from behind her were any indication.

“Astrid!”

Time seemed to crawl by as Astrid saw to the village – like a nanny, she felt.  Half the time, she was resolving stupid disputes over the dumbest things, ranging from ‘he pushed me!’ to ‘that piece of indistinguishable-wooden-debris belongs to MY house!’

On the plus side, breaking up the fights did let her vent a little.  She probably would have exploded by noon if she hadn’t been able to hit some people with her axe.

She weaved her way through the village, the chilly air doing nothing to improve her mood.  The Larsons had seen Phlegma a couple of hours ago when they were organizing a group of helpers to fix the storage house.  Gustav volunteered that she had headed ‘somewhere in that direction’ in a voice that was a little too manly for a seven year old and with a head jerk that belonged to a teenager.

Mr. Larson shrugged at Astrid’s questioning look.

Phlegma was not, in fact, anywhere in “that direction,” Astrid found come midafternoon after she had scoured the entire area.  She did manage to find Snotlout, who didn’t even try to hit on her.  Not because of her obvious irritation, but because the short but burly young man was too saddened by his chief’s and _uncle’s_ passing.  And while Astrid was disinclined to think anything good of the boy who thought about nothing but his own muscles and hot girls, a part of her heart melted at the sight of him working diligently and complacently to fix the alarm torch that dragon had destroyed.  Wood still crunched underfoot and Astrid could even see faint bloodstains on the grass.

She turned sharply, refusing to let anyone see the anger that twisted her face.  A chief was always calm.

She found Ruffnut and Tuffnut cleaning dragon skins in front of their house.  Tuffnut saw her first, throwing a sloppy punch at his sister to grab her attention.

Ruffnut gave him a feeble little shove in response.  Like Snotlout, the twins looked like they had lost the heart to act like their usual imbecilic selves as they calmly skinned the Nightmare before them, butchering it and harvesting the usual parts with an air of mastery.  It was weird watching them work together so efficiently, so quietly.  So…maturely.

Astrid moved on quickly, trying not to think about it.  There were plenty of things to keep her busy as the day dragged on.  She set Mulch to work preparing for another fishing trip and directed a wandering and lost Bucket in his direction.

The sun seemed a little more mocking, hardly having moved at all.

Listened to Mildew rant about his destroyed garden and demand…well, this late in the season there wasn’t much to be done about lost vegetables.  Thankfully, a semi-sympathetic ear seemed to appease him.

She felt the shadows should have been longer.

Spotted Gothi reentering her hut, a fresh basket of herbs and medicines on her arm and spoke with the wounded, getting a feel for the medicines they would have to restock and the number of Vikings that would be out of commission for a while yet.

She hated that sun.

Checked up on her house, where her parents and younger siblings were working.  Briefly glanced into the smithy where Gobber was literally repairing wagon-loads of weapons – without his flaky apprentice.  Ran into Spitelout on his way down to the docks.  Astrid’s gaze flickered down to the hammer in his hands before moving out of the way and letting the gruff and grieving man continue his collection.  Saw Fishlegs fixing the fence around his family’s fields as the Ingermans kept the yaks inside.  Finally found Phlegma the Fierce.

“Hello, A-ah, hello,” the woman greeted her.  Then she turned back to her family, who was trying to wrangle their flock of sheep together.  “WATCH THAT ‘ICCUP, ‘E’S AN INQUISITIVE LITTLE RUNT!”

“On it!  Here, sheepy-sheepy-sheepy!  NO!  Here, you little booger, HERE!”

The buff woman turned back to her.  “Time to find a new hiding spot for the sheep, I assume?”

Astrid nodded.  “Do you have any ideas?”

“A few.”

Astrid stared up at the brilliant blue sky as the woman led the way down the mountain, boots crunching over the tough, half-frozen soil.

She knew that every day had an ending, told herself that logically, this mocking day would be over and she would get to mourn in her own time and her own place.  She just had to wait for nightfall, when the village was done for the day and she was, too.  It will come, she reassured herself.  Soon.

For some reason, that reassurance didn't help.

Probably because she didn't truly believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, Astrid's part was such a drag to write...as much as that day is a drag to her. I did my best to make it interesting, but the series-of-oneshots style of telling stories agrees with me better. That would be short-changing the nature of this story, though, so no dice.
> 
> Secondly, thanks for all the support for the first chapter! Wow...
> 
> Let's see if I can actually finish the next chapter in a month, shall we?
> 
> Sheisa


	3. The Stranger and the Successor

No matter what Astrid and the rest of the village thought, the world didn’t just stop.  When something really important happens, it doesn’t say, ‘Let us take a few moments to respect the finest Chief to walk Berk’s shores.’  No, the happenings of man are not important enough to affect the heavens and the heavens are not petty enough to play their tricks on humans.  As Astrid attended to the colossal damage the dragons had showered on Berk, even by the Vikings’ standards, the sun actually did move across the sky.  The storm clouds still gathered on the horizon.

While the lethargic village was forced by the brutal sun and chillingly nice temperature to make use of the turning day, Hiccup chose to ignore the cosmos’s untimely gift of good weather.  He retreated to his house, locking the rest of the world out, and let his own earth-shaken dimension wind to a stop.

Partly because it felt right to stop and just think about him.  And to respect him.  And most importantly, to honor him, because Stoick the Vast was a very important person to Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.  And he had done so much for his people – _so much more than he had ever done for_ him – that Hiccup asked himself why _they_ refused to think he was important enough for them to pause, even for only a few minutes, and honor him, too.

But Hiccup could only tell himself all the things the Chief had done and all the things he wouldn’t be doing anymore so many times before his mind wound itself into a new tiresome knot of: _what is going to happen now?_

Hiccup didn’t even realize he had done nothing but ghost through the two-floor house, slowly collecting his father’s items, until it was sunset, when the shadows stretched from house to house and everything the sunlight touched was tinted burnt orange.  As he gazed out the window and down the blazing hill at the docks where the ships were being prepared, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled from the chill.  The house stood highest on the hill, where the chief could look out over his village.  The center just down the way, the houses all built higglty-pigglty everywhere that would support them, the innumerous kitchen gardens and pathways, the fields, the docks, the catapults, the entrance to the Great Hall, and the whole ocean.

The chair his dad always sat in was positioned just so, giving him a nice line of sight through the window when the chief had drunk his tea every morning and nursed his headaches every night.  Now, Hiccup leaned out of it, his dark auburn hair turning gold as he craned his neck to take in every inch of his dad’s village.  For some reason, the sight was disappointing.  He ended up ambling back into the shadows of his home feeling dissatisfied.

He puttered for a moment before deciding to approach the table, tossing a bundle of kindling onto the floor so he could sit.  Stoick’s helmet was the only thing he hadn’t managed to let go of - yet.  It sat on the table towards his dad’s side and Hiccup half expected the red-bearded giant to stride in and say with his usual bluster, ‘can’t leave withou’ this,’ spirit or not.

A sharp knock made him jolt.  “Ye-“  Hurriedly, he cleared his unused throat.  “Yes?”

Gobber opened the door and poked his head in.  “It’s sunset, Hiccup.  It’s time.”

Spitelout, Snotlout, and a few others stood behind him.  Presumably the people in the village his father had been closest to.  Astrid was there.

“Yeah.  Okay.”  Hiccup nodded at the spot in front of the door where a small, neat pile of things – his father’s favored hammer, his vast mug, an extra pair of boots, his whittling knife, and a few other possessions – was waiting to be carried down to their owner.  “Take that down.  I’ll be there soon.”

Gobber bent forward to grab the hammer with a grunt.  Despite the strain of the heavy weapon, his voice was still soft.  “Alright, lad.  Come on, boys and girls, grab something and go.”

The small group shuffled in and out.  Hiccup observed them in his peripherals, heightening his brooding atmosphere as he pretended to stare at the helmet so that no one would approach him, no one would look at him.  The only one who sent him anything more than a glance was Gobber.  The rest kept their heads bowed and their eyes on the Chief’s possessions in their hands, expressions somber and…stoic.

Shockingly, the saddest expression belonged to Snotlout.  Hiccup could even see the tears gathering in his eyes, but his cousin hadn’t changed so much that he would let them fall.  Then again, when he stepped in Hiccup’s direction with a sensitive air Hiccup had never seen in him before, Hiccup did faintly wonder what had made his oh-so-arrogant cousin finally wake up.

Regardless, he did not like the way Snotlout’s gaze went between him and his father’s helmet.  Hiccup caught his eye.  “I will bring it.”

Turning around silently, Snotlout didn’t bother to argue.  Then again, Hiccup had left no room for argument.

The door swung shut behind him.

“So since I’m a coward…I don’t want to say all this private goodbye stuff in front of everybody.”  Hiccup’s gaze flickered to the door, ears straining for the slightest hint of someone approaching.  “This is…really personal, Dad.  I never could say it to you.”  The corner of his lips tilted up.  “Hopefully saying it to your helmet is good enough.”  He took a breath, head snapping to the door when the wind made it shudder against the frame.  “I…I tried to be the son you wanted me to be, Dad.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know, exactly, what I am.  But I know I’m not…that.  I’m sorry.  I’ve known for a while, and I think you have, too, because…we both gave up.”

The door shuddered again and suddenly Hiccup was hyperaware of the passing time.

“I wish…I wish I wasn’t like this, Dad.  I never wanted to disappoint you or make you unhappy, the opposite, really, and I want you to know that.  Everything I did, I did it for you, and yes, it all went horribly wrong, and I’m sorry, but…I’m not you.  You’re amazing, Dad.  You’re so strong and you were smart to pick Astrid as your successor, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be.”

Footsteps thudded up the path, right next to the steps.  A very familiar, stomp, tap.  Stomp, tap.  Stomp stomp tap.

“I…”

The footsteps stopped.  He had maybe five seconds and the words he’d always wanted his father to hear, to know, came out in a rushed whisper.  “I love you, Dad.  And even if I wasn’t the son you always wanted, I think…”

_Knock knock_.

“Hiccup?”

_“I hope you loved me, too.”_   Hiccup blinked, abruptly snapping his gaze away from the still metal and to the door.  “Yes?  Coming!  Coming.”

His time to mourn was over.

 

* * *

 

 

Astrid didn’t rightly know what had happened to Hiccup.  In all honesty, she had completely lost track of him a few years ago.  She remembered he had been all over the place, leaving a trail of wreckage behind him.  He was sarcastic and weird and best avoided.  She remembered one spectacular failure when he had knocked over – an alarm torch, she thought.  It had taken out half the village with it and she didn’t remember exactly what he had said afterward, but she did remember thinking, ‘this guy is a selfish, two-bit show pony whose acts blow up in everyone’s faces’ and the almost subconscious verdict to make sure their paths never crossed.

She also vaguely recalled seeing him in dragon training, but the only image she could summon was one of him crouched behind a shield, his weapon’s head about a foot away from hitting the stone floor.  She hadn’t bothered to pay him any attention.

Now, everyone was paying attention to the chief’s son as he descended down the docks, holding the Chief’s helmet in front of him.  Gobber shadowed his shoulder as they walked down the path the townspeople left open, the way illuminated by the Vikings’ many torches.  Their lights cast the image of hundreds of candles floating on the harbor’s waters.

Hiccup had grown to become surprisingly handsome, Astrid admitted to herself as she waited at the bottom of the docks where the ships waited with her.  His rounded nose fit him well and his long face ended in a strong jawline.  He had grown tall when she wasn’t looking.  His limbs, while not heavily muscled by any means, were finally more than sticks.  He wore dark armguards now, their style much like the ones she used to wear, wrapping around the entire forearm and tying off at the middle finger.  Her eyes caught a glimpse of the armguard Gobber wore.

It was probably a blacksmith thing.

Unlike Gobber, his upper arms weren’t exposed at all, covered by the sleeve of a green-looking tunic that still didn’t hide the subtle but firm curve of the muscle underneath.  He wore shoulderguards as well now – leather ones from the way the lights shined on them.  And a brown leather sort of…vest/armor thing over his torso that reached below his belt.  It looked like it was made to hold bunches of tools – again, probably some blacksmithing thing.

All in all, he still stuck out from the crowd like a sore thumb.  An intriguing sore thumb.  Astrid’s eyes followed him with a will of their own, finding a certain appeal to his physique that hadn’t been there before.

And that made her feel absolutely appalled at herself.  She should not be eyeing up Stoick’s son at Stoick’s funeral.

(She was more appalled because this was Hiccup.)

But she found it easier not to stare at all the leather as he walked past her when she focused on the unmoving form beneath the sheet – Chief Stoick.

Somberly, half his face shadowed by his bangs, Hiccup placed the helmet overtop his father’s blanketed chest.

His father…it was near impossible to believe that the two were related.  Astrid tried not to sniff or huff or give any sign of the tears that choked her eyes and nose.  It wasn’t the stressful weight of the village or the horrible, horrible day that made her eyes become glossy and she bit her lip, refusing to let it tremble.

She just wished he could have stayed longer.  Stoick was a second father to her and now…it was over.

She pushed the memories of _what_ was all over away, focusing instead on the simple fact that their golden era was gone.  Or more specifically, her golden era was gone.  It was up to her now to uphold it for everyone else as Stoick had taught her to do.

She just wished he was here.

Forcing her eyes to refocus, she realized the traitors were on Hiccup once again.

You know, people often said that the dead lived on in the hearts of their family.

That was utterly untrue for the Haddocks.  As Astrid allowed herself to give Hiccup a very thorough screening used for top assassins and spies, she didn’t see Stoick’s assured gait or strong posture.  She looked for some sort of weight, or immovability to his figure, tried to find even a glimmer of the protective, in-control expression on Stoick’s face.  Stoick was intimidating, as a Viking chief should be, but he had always been approachable, ready to listen and help any who asked.

Hiccup was NOT _, he was_ -

Astrid Hofferson gave herself a strong mental slap.

Still, as hard as she tried, she found her attention drawn to the Haddock that was still breathing as he paused at the top of the gangplank, gaze lightly skimming the village.  With a small grimace, she forcefully returned her gaze to the figure under the blanket.  And she pointedly ignored Hiccup as he walked back down the gangplank and took the spot at the point of the archers.

(He didn’t appear to notice.)

“Release the ships.”

Astrid stayed still as the chief’s son stepped forward and drew a knife, the hilt fashioned artistically after a dragon.  Her fingers itched with the irritatingly familiar wish to step forward and do it herself and a few embers of resentment and anger heated up in her, spitting sparks in Hiccup’s direction.

Abruptly, she reminded herself for the third time that this was Stoick’s funeral.  Stoick’s event.  Ignore his son.

Because she cared about Stoick.  She did not care about Hiccup.  It was easy to wrestle down the traitorous side of her that wanted to take a step in the man’s direction and either slap him, or purr at him.

Actually, she strangled that part of herself.

(Look at the way he was standing!  He didn’t want to have anything to do with her!)

The current pulled the ships out into the dark water and let them drift , fourteen in total, ranging from six oars to twenty.  Once they stepped back into the crowd and faced the ships again, Hiccup began to speak, his nasal, un-chiefly voice somehow carrying over the water and into the air where everyone could hear it.

“You are all strong and brave men and women.  Berk is grateful for your service and knows that Odin and Freyja will welcome you with open arms.  May your journey be swift and sure…”

Astrid concentrated on saying the speech in her head as the ships started to blend with the darkness, the words coming to her easily.  She had spent nights memorizing this speech…during his training.  Being able to say it for him, despite the fact that it was _Hiccup’s_ voice everyone heard, felt fulfilling.  Her mind seemed to clear as a deep sense of peace settled like a blanket over her mind.  The torchlights in the water were mesmerizing, bringing her a moment of tranquility that tasted soft and sweet on her tongue, a moment so still that Astrid had never, ever-

The other archers raised their bows as Hiccup did, arrowheads aflame, and the peaceful feeling was gone, replaced by the itch and twitchy fingers.  With a _twang_ , the boats caught fire and Astrid found herself staring at Chief Stoick’s ship, half expecting it to remain dark and unlit as it sailed away.

It lit up just like the others and she almost, not quite, felt cheated.  But she held Stoick’s fate at a higher importance than her role in it.  And she admitted that Hiccup did have a strong claim to be the one to conduct it.

_‘He is MY father, Astrid, and I will arrange his journey to Valhalla.’_

She hadn’t contested it so here she was.  With the rest of the village, Astrid finally got to draw her bowstring back to her numb cheek.  Flaming arrows filled the dark horizon like a meteor shower, as many landing in the water as on the vessels.  Reflecting the brilliant lights, the ocean hissed under the assault and wood popped and crackled.  The black clouds above prevented any stars from peeking through at Berk’s private moment.

Berk’s most bittersweet moment.  The water had never looked so beautiful, and they had never gathered here for such a sad purpose.  Astrid wasn’t exactly a poet, but on an almost subconscious level, she could appreciate it.  The irony.  The moment.

The crowd dispersed slowly afterwards.  It was time for the departed’s closest family to say their goodbyes and speeches rose up from the lowest platform of the docks.

Astrid waited.

Gobber did no such thing.

“Stoick, you rascal, you left me here with everyone else!”  He shook his fist at the distant flames on the water.  “You, my very last friend…there’s no one like you, Stoick.  O’ course, there’s no one like me, either, but an island full of you would be a thing to admire and an island full of me would probably sink in a week.  We’re going to miss you, Stoick, but don’t worry.  Like I said, you left me behind and I’ll do my best to look after everyone.  Especially your boy.”  Astrid pretended not to see the subtle glance Gobber shot at her as the goodbye became more personal and out of respect, she edged away as far as she could.  She didn’t want every Ingerman and Hoarkson to hear her, either.

Ignoring his low murmurs, Astrid continued to wait.  She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the pyre ship that belonged to Stoick – the twenty-oar one.  The very best they could give despite the War.  Berk would burn to the ground before its Vikings would even think to give him anything less.

Her eyes slid slightly to the left.

Hiccup was waiting, too.

Gobber left.

As the ships went out, sinking beneath the waves or burning to ash on the surface, their numbers dwindled until it was just her and him, waiting.

They were not waiting together.

Water lapped at the dock.  Astrid could feel the spray clinging to her.  It was terribly cold, and almost completely dark.

Astrid stole a glance at his back, unable to see his face.

Hiccup shifted his weight to his left leg.

Astrid ignored the goosebumps crawling down her skin.

Hiccup crossed his arms.

They waited a while more, just the two of them.  No people, no ships in sight.  Not even the remains of a ship in sight.

For a moment, it looked like Hiccup was about to say something.  His chest and shoulders swelled and Astrid could hear his intake of breath.  Finally –

Then he turned around and walked away, not giving her a chance to say a word to him.

Not that she wanted to.  Astrid glared furiously as he passed her, silently livid.  For a second, she really couldn’t believe it, that this was Chief Stoick’s son, that this coward would say nothing to his father, not even a _goodbye_.  How about an ‘I’m sorry!’ she wanted to shout at his back.  Hiccup was smart.  She knew that he knew how much suffering he had caused his father.

Then she remembered: he was selfish and irresponsible and she felt ashamed and outraged, purely disappointed in Stoick’s place.

Her hands curled into fists, grasping for the handle of her absent weapon.

He had not had the right to conduct this at all!  _She_ should have done it, _she should have done it,_ she should have given Stoick the ship and the speech, been the one to send him off, because his son – _Hiccup,_ her mind spat out like a foul curse – oh, he was, he was-

Astrid didn’t know what he was, but she did know that he somehow managed to leave her breathless with rage.

She stood there, her hard demeanor holding back a crushing wave like a dam under pressure, as his footsteps faded out of earshot, wasting the night as she tried to remember why she was standing there – he was _distracting_ – until she abruptly realized that this was about STOICK.

The now-dark harbor and the cloudy sky blended together flawlessly as she stared across the horizon.  The dark blues, deep blacks, and smooth greys were unmarred by so much as a single mast.

Astrid let her heart slow down and her chest relax, her deep breaths fogging up millimeters from her lips.

“Chief, I want you to know…”

That was the point of the goodbye.  It was the final chance to say anything you wanted them to hear.  But Astrid didn’t have much to say, because she had already told him everything.  Well, almost everything.

“I want you to know, that I will look after the village just as you have.  I promise to make sure everyone is safe and strong.  I will protect them from the harsh winters that threaten to starve us.  I will lead them against any tribes who dare to attack us.  I will fight against the beasts trying to destroy us.”

The Vows of the Chieftain flowed easily from her mouth.  She let them, thinking of his last wish.  This felt like what he wanted to hear.

“On my honor, I will defend our island from any who would harm it.  Berk will never fall before I do.  This I swear before the Gods, the Elder, the Council, and all assembled here this day.”  She gestured across the empty water.  “I, Astrid Hofferson, step up as Chief of Berk!”

The waters rang with her voice.  It took her a moment to realize that the Elder was not there, nor the Council, or anyone, really.  Just her.

But it had helped.  The vows she had just made, that still echoed around her, felt so much more solid than the four word promise she had given him before in the rush and confusion of a battle.  This had been important to say.

She realized as she stood keeping her quiet vigil to an absent boat carrying an absent soul, that there was one more thing she wanted him to know, that she had never explicitly said to him.  She thought she had made it clear in the way she had followed his every instruction, how she had listened to every word.  Actions were powerful, but easy to ignore or misinterpret (especially if you were looking to a _Viking_ for your interpretation).  Nothing could truly replace a good sentence.

“I will strive to be a Chief as great as you,” she promised the empty waves.

It was going to be difficult because no one had ever been able to measure up to Stoick before.  It had been a long time since Astrid Hofferson hadn’t been 100% confident in her own ability to succeed, but faced with a task like this, success seemed impossible.

Then again, if she could be half the chief Stoick was, then Astrid felt she would still be doing well by Berk, just as Stoick thought she could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many monologues...so many monologues! I just realized these last two chapters feel almost like a prologue because they're so reflective. And that this story seems slow. And that I've just written over 3500 words on just Hiccup and Astrid.  
> That's going to change, I think. But I get very critical of my character interaction scenes and I have a job sooooo...I'd guess around another month until the next chapter.  
> Thanks for all your wonderful support!  
> ~Sheisa


	4. Choosing One's Company

**A Father's Disappointment**

Stoick was reasonably certain that this wasn’t Valhalla.  Of course, never having been in Valhalla before he couldn’t swear to it, but the feathery-grey marble seemed a little too…classy.  That was the word.  The place was elegant and clean.  Absolutely spotless, actually.  Something about it screamed, ‘feminine touch!’ at him.

As he climbed to his feet, he stared around in confusion and wonder some more.  The ceiling looked grey, almost like a cloudy sky, and the white marble pillars and steps somehow melded with the earthy ground flawlessly, giving way to evergreen shrubs and flowering plants, even trees.  If Stoick had been one for poetry, he would have immediately sat himself down on a nearby bench and started scribbling furiously about the resolve of the earth between his toes – why wwere his feet bare?? –, the prestigious height of the cloudy ceiling, and the affectionate way the duo intertwined.

But Stoick was not a poet, and he really was looking forward to a steaming hot, hearty meal (because when isn’t a Viking ready for a good meal?), a tankard of strong ale, a roaring fire, and some great, perhaps legendary, company.  He had honestly envisioned Valhalla to be something like Berk’s Great Hall (even though it was really the opposite; the Great Hall had been carved into the mountainside in imitation of Valhalla’s place in Helgafjell).  He had believed Valhalla would be….better, somehow.  Grander, and bigger, but still cozy, and with a throne for the Allfather, plenty of room to have a nice brawl, etc.

He stopped walking as a breeze blew against his bare head.  Stoick scowled.  Well.  Maybe it was a waiting place?  Something to do with the funeral, probably.  Where were his boots and more importantly, _where was his helmet?_

With a huff, he settled down on a cold bench and decided to wait.

His huff echoed from behind him.

Then something sneezed.

Stoick whirled around.

“You are not him,” a voice said.

“Excuse me?!” Stoick demanded, voice gruff and hand reaching for his hammer, or perhaps his sword.  He growled when he realized that he didn’t have those, either, and his eyes combed the room for the speaker.

“Who _are_ you?”

Stoick bristled.  “I am Stoick the Vast, Chief of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe of Berk, High Terror of the Northern Seas, Demon Slayer of the Barbaric Archipelago!  Come out before me and show yourself!” he commanded.

Stoick unwittingly froze when a dark shadow detached itself from the shade of a little island of greenery, not twenty feet away from him, and stalked – well, it was more of a stomp – onto the stone pathway.

“You aren’t him,” it said again, leaning forward slightly to sniff at his direction.  “You _aren’t him_.”  It’s tail lashed.  “They said it was you!  I can’t _believe_ this, you get ONE shot – just one! – and not only do I get pointed at the wrong person, HAH!  I completely miss!  Oh, well, this is just _perfect_.”  It rolled its eyes, its neon green eyes.  “Wonderful.  Fantastic.  How nice.  Everyone will be delighted to hear about _this_!”

The pitch black dragon continued to grumble at itself, its tenor voice rising and falling with irritation.  And sarcasm.  And a hefty dose of sass.  Stoick for his part was at a loss for what to do and just stood there, fists up and knees bent, at the ready for when the world would right itself again and the dragon would attack the Viking.

“-and just wait until Dad hears about this, oooo-“

Now it sounded worried.

“-he’s going to be _so mad_ , and then there’s Grandfather, oh gods-“

“SO!” a voice boomed.

Stoick and the dragon jumped in tandem.

Stoick had the feeling that if the doorway had had a door, the man – no, the _god_ – in the entryway would have slammed it open with a glorious BANG!

But there was no door and hence, the god had decided to announce his presence with an earth-shaking ‘SO!’ that echoed around in Stoick’s head.

The dragon shook its own head hard enough to make its – ears? – slap around, obviously trying to get rid of the ringing, too.

Thor seemed completely oblivious as he approached them.  “So…THIS is the man,” he beamed, arms held out in the worldwide gesture known as, ‘GIVE ME A GREAT BEAR HUG!’  Stoick eyed him apprehensively, understandably just a bit hesitant to ignore the honorable speeches and the respectful bows and skip right to a jolly friendship with a powerful deity his people revered.

“Uhh…”

Thor clearly had no such reservations.  Stoick’s face nearly met the floor under the god’s welcoming backslap.

“This is the great Chief of Berk, the Legendary Protector!”  Thor circled him, blue eyes judgmental as he assessed the red-bearded man before him, a hand to his well-shaven chin.  “Hmm…mhmm.”

As Thor gave him a one-over Stoick took the opportunity to observe the god.  He was almost shocked at the distinct lack of beard on his chin, but the man had long, blonde, almost white locks that reached freely down below his shoulders and a masculine jawline to make up for it.  His warrior’s outfit showed a strong, solid build, not as large as Stoick’s, but perhaps more…proportioned, he admitted.

His hammer, Mjolnir, hung at his waist in the folds of his cape.

He tried not to pitch forward when the god’s hand hit his shoulderblade again.  Thor was back to beaming in front of him, his strong chin and cheekbones the only things preventing it from looking like a childish expression of delight.

“EXCELLENT choice, my son!”

“Well, _actually_ , Dad-“ the creature hedged, trotting around the men in an effort to get in front of the god.

“Stoick the Vast, you truly are FORMIDABLE!  FANTASTIC!  It is an HONOR to meet you!” Thor declared as he offered his hand for a shake.  “I am Thor the Thunderer, Bringer of Storms, Defender of Honor, the Patron of Warriors such as yourself!” he introduced himself.

So this really wasn’t Valhalla, and this really was Thor.  Stoick was far from put out about his afterlife arrangements if it meant he got to meet his favorite deity in person.  With a broad grin, he grabbed the god’s hand and firmly shook it, giving it a good, bone-creaking squeeze at the wrist as was custom.  Thor chuckled with him as the god slung a friendly arm about the Viking’s shoulders.

“-and if you really think about it, it wasn’t exactly _my_ choice _anyway_ -“  The dragon froze mid-sentence as Thor turned to face it.

“And of course, you’ve met my son, Rúni.”

Stoick thought back.  He remembered those last few moments of screeching and fire and the midnight black sky.  He sent a hard look at the midnight black dragon, which shrank in on itself, as the realization of who this ‘Rúni’ was dawned on him like the dramatic dawn of a new era.  It was very red.

“Of course,” he answered, trying not to show how much he wanted to leap forward and wring Thor’s son’s neck.  ‘Rúni’ looked like he was caught between a rock and a hard place, wearing a classic ‘dragon in the torchlights’ expression as Thor gestured grandly to him.  He gave a little nod, his scrunched-up posture screaming ‘AWKWARD!’

But killing his son would probably be a bad way to stay in the god’s favor and it wouldn’t bring him back to life anyway so Stoick decided to focus on the beaming man beside him.

“And it’s quite the honor to meet you, sir,” he answered respectfully.  He wasn’t sure what he had done to merit such camaraderie with a god, but he figured that he could ask as soon as Thor had exhausted his praises.  In the meantime, he let himself be guided up the steps into an area with a circular bench in it, a bunch of long wheat grass at the center and tall, dark green plants acting as walls behind the bench.  The dragon practically danced with hesitancy as it followed behind them, still muttering under its breath.

“You COULDN’T have picked a better warrior, son!”

The devil huffed in exasperation, giving another eyeroll.  “Dad, I didn’t-“

“Stoick the Vast, the man who slayed his first beast at the tender age of two years old!”

Stoick, like most Vikings, wasn’t prone to humility, but when standing before a god, one doesn’t simply lap up praise.  Especially when one has delicate questions that may make said god disgruntled a little later.  “Well, it was only a Terrible Terror, sir, hardly an achievement-“

“-because he didn’t actually-“

“And who sent those barbaric Scots swimming for their shores when they dared to set oar in our seas!”

“My father was in charge of that operation, sir,” Stoick admitted.

Thor scoffed.  “NONSENSE, Stoick, you think I didn’t see what happened from up here?  The Allfather may keep an eye on you, my comrade, but he’s not the only one!  There’s no limit to the number of patrons a person can have, and the more the better!”

Stoick was rarely at a loss for words.  “That’s-that’s a tremendous, uh-“

“-and look at that!  Surprise, surprise, it’s like he can’t even _hear_ me-“

Thor gave him an enthusiastic clap on the back again.  “Of course, you had my father’s favor since you were a wee lad, a promising leader already, but when I saw how you took charge of your panicking ranks and, in the midst of a tremendous storm, turned a bunch of sniveling codfish into a force to reckon with, right in the middle of the sea, Allfather!”  Thor slapped the marble.  Stoick was surprised the pillar didn’t quake under his hand.  “Fantastic!”

“Thank you, sir.”  There was really nothing else he could say.

Then Thor strode over to the dragon and gave it one of those friendly backslaps that were working their way up Stoick’s ‘To Be Avoided’ List, right next to ‘cranky council members.’  The child of lightning – _lightning,_ Stoick remembered, _now it made sense_ – and death itself nearly collapsed onto the floor under the gesture, its knees buckling.

“You know, Rúni,” Thor boomed, still grinning with pleasure, “I was a little worried about who you’d come up with at first, but you really pulled through, son!”

“Well, Dad, you see,” the dragon continued, clearly uncomfortable with the way his father’s hand rested on his back.

“When I heard you had been hit, I had wondered who in Midgard it could have been, but now that I see him… Rúni,” Thor declared, practically brimming with pride now, “If anyone can do it, this man can!”

“But Father-“

“Yes, my boy!”

The dragon shuffled its feet, avoiding eye contact.  “He…kind of…it wasn’t-“

“There’s no shame in being taken down by this man, son!”  Thor turned back to Stoick.  “Why, he could take on the gods ourselves if he thought it would help his people, and he’d do a mighty fine job of it, I dare say!”

Stoick nodded in acknowledgment of the shining compliment, feeling as lost as a leaf in the middle of a whirlwind.

“But _Dad_ -“

Thor strode back to Stoick, gesturing for him to take a seat on the bench.  “Now, we don’t have too much time, so I fear we will have to be prompt with the explanations if we want to get a good round in before my son takes you back.”

“Daaaaad!  Hellloooo~!”

“Takes…me back?”

“Of course!”  Thor looked at him as though the inconceivable idea were obvious.  “This is just a brief visit, Chief!  As much as I wish we had more time, this is supposed to be a meeting for, business, of a sort.  My brother is supposed to meet with us, too, but he’s late – as usual.  He’ll probably insist it fashionable, but I personally think it just plain rude.  Well, if he wastes time it’s his own fault and that’s that.  We certainly aren’t going to wait for him-“

Suddenly, Stoick was back on Berk, hearing _‘NIGHT FURY!  GET DOWN!’_ and smelling _burning houses_ , _ash_ , feeling the _biting night air_ _against his skin and the_ _hot surge_ _of adrenaline as he went for his hammer and a blood-freezing roar that made his hair prickle echoed all around him, dominated him-_

His eyes refocused.

White marble.  A black beast stood before them, wings flared, eyes narrowed and teeth showing in an ugly snarl.  _The offspring of lightning and death itself – the Demon._

If Stoick had had his hammer, he would have rushed forward and pounced on the beast, cracking its neck with one swing.

A couple seconds later, he admitted to himself it was a good thing he didn’t have his hammer because that meant he hadn’t rushed forward to slay the devil and therefore also hadn’t angered the extremely powerful god who would have wiped him out of existence.  Heavens knew he would do it if anyone dared to try to kill his son – even if his son was a Hiccup.  He sensed Thor felt the same way about this…dragon.

His eyes slid to the left.

The god’s jolly visage had melted away, revealing a dark scowl that strongly reminded Stoick of a storm front.  In fact, the air around the god had almost seemed to turn gray, like the clouds of a thunderstorm.

The object of his wrath, the Demon, was almost cowering against the floor but the snarl and the defiant attitude stayed, palpable in the bend of its knees and the curves of its wicked wings.

“RÚNI!”

Leaves shook and the dragon braced itself against the force of Thor’s thunder.

But it did remain standing.  “I’m trying to tell you something, Dad!” it insisted.

“You know you are NEVER to do that here, YOU UNDERSTAND?” Thor roared with a voice like a hurricane.  Stoick remained frozen.  “Don’t EVER roar IN THIS HOUSE, young man!”  The storm died down as Thor took a deep breath, his grip on Mjolnir slackening.  “Don’t ever roar here, Rúni.  You are grounded.  Don’t come back here until I tell you you can, understand?”

It pawed at the ground in frustration.  “Dad!  Listen to me!”

Thor whirled around to face the Night Fury again.  “I am your FATHER!  YOU, LISTEN, TO ME!  NOW LEAVE!”

“You need to know, he-!”

“LEAVE!”

“ _-isn’t the One Who Shot Me Down!_ ”

Thor’s roar echoed with the Night Fury’s scream, a distinctly animalistic chord bouncing around the room as a heavy silence descended.

“…”

“…”

“…”

An absurdly cheery voice snapped the tense atmosphere in half.

“Hello, Family!”

 

* * *

**A Life's Work**

Snotlout shut the door to his house – well, his _home_ , really, it wasn’t _his_ house – as gently as he could, not bothering to hide a gigantic yawn that made his eyes screw shut.  His stomach rumbled like thunder in the silent house, too, making his agenda clear: a good meal and then a good night’s rest.

The fire in the hearth crackled and popped as he silently tip-toed his way across the house to the door that led to the cellar.  He cast furtive glances at the partition that separated his parents’ sleeping area from the main area of the house.  Hopefully, the flickering shadows wouldn’t wake anyone and he could get to bed in peace.

Just to be extra careful, he made sure to walk on the ends of the floorboards where they didn’t squeak as much.

Humming as quietly as he could, he softly propped the door open and slid into the opening, lighting the candle placed beside the door.

_‘Shink!’_

He glanced up sharply as the rocks clunked together, pausing in his humming to listen for any sort of movement.

For one heart-stopping moment, he heard the bed creak as someone rolled slightly, then…

With a silent sigh of relief, Snotlout saw that the candle had caught on his first try.

He was getting better at this.

Setting the stones back where they belonged, Snotlout descended into the dark, humming once again.  Tonight he found himself in the mood for a slightly mysterious tune.  He’d been leaning towards the more mystic ones lately.  They’d grown on him slowly but surely, he thought sourly.  Like fungus on a rock.

Grabbing the first piece of meat he saw – the cellar was cold and he was tired and just didn’t care at this point – Snotlout booked it for the fire, not even bothering to grab a plate.  He simply jammed the half-frozen meat on a stick and practically stuck it into the fire, willing it to cook as fast as it could.

His life pretty much royally sucked right now.  Moodily, he leaned his head on his hand, letting the fire entrance his tired eyes.  He couldn’t wait to get out of this stinkin’ house.  He was going to be a Viking mercenary.  That would be awesome.  Plenty of Berkians left Berk to become dragon-killers for hire.

But to do that, he had to kill dragons.  Get a really nice dragon-slaying record going on and all that.  He absently fingered the growing collection of spikes on his left armguard.  The first one was the horn of a Nadder – his first kill.  The beast had been a purplish shade of blue, about 18 feet tall, and well into its prime, but not too old.  Fairly impressive, but not impressive enough.

There were a couple of Gronkle teeth on it as well.  Gronkles were, in all honesty, the easiest ones to take down.  Slow and lumbering, one only needed a sharp weapon, bulging muscles, and an awareness of its vulnerable spot, where the jaws hooked together, and Snotlout had all of those.

He fingered his three favorite spikes, the Monstrous Nightmare horns that encircled his wrist.

Now if he could just get a Zippleback on there, and a good story behind it, he’d be in the big leagues.  The only other person in their group who had as many kills as he did was Astrid, but that was to be expected – she was Astrid after all.  She would have made an epic dragon slayer, traveling the world with a bloodied axe in one hand, her braid fluttering over her shoulder, her lithe figure outlined by the sunset behind her as she stood on the top of a craggy peak, fearless in the face of the horizon…

Snotlout sniffed the chicken.  It was almost done.

The dream was nice, but dreams were stupid so Snotlout stuck with fact:

If he could keep up his current average of kills a month, in half a year he’d have enough experience to be considered a full-fledged Slayer despite his age, and he’d be in the top ten percentile according to Fishlegs.  He’d be set.

In the meantime, he snuck into his house at night, requested the worst nightwatch shifts available, made sure to harvest trees in the most inaccessible places on the island, and generally avoided his father as much as he possibly could.  It was cowardly, it was depressing, it made him mad, and on that note, he tossed his bones away and headed for his loft.

Just before he settled down for the night, he pulled out the sheepskin and charcoal from under his bed.  The charcoal was embedded in a piece of wood, a stupid little thing he had snatched away from his cousin years upon years ago.  Now he used it to scratch off one more square on the skin.  About a third of them remained, but he took comfort in the black two-thirds.  He rubbed a finger over the figures and hard-worked arithmetic that surrounded the boxes.

After a second, he rolled it all up again and hid it back under his bed where his dad would never see it.  Then he pulled the covers up, blew out the candle, and closed his eyes, out faster than the vanishing light.

 

* * *

**Stoick's Task**

Stoick’s head snapped around to the speaker who was either utterly unaware of or more likely cutting through the thick tension on purpose.

He wasn’t sure who this fellow was, but he was considerably less built than most people he had met and he sauntered over the threshold with an almost smug attitude, rather like a cat.  The long spear in his hand clunked against the ground as he used the ornate weapon as a common walking staff.  His black hair was brushed back to reveal a widow’s peak and cut short so it stopped a little below his shoulders.  Like Thor, he also wore a cape but his was a deep green and unlike Thor, he wore very little armor, preferring a strange black outfit of some sort.

“You don’t have to look so put out to see me, Thor.”  The thin god smirked at the god of thunder as he strode up to the party.  “Nice to see you again, Rúni.”  One pale hand brushed over the frills on the beast’s head the same way an adult would ruffle a young relation’s hair, making the dragon shake its head to rearrange them again.  “And…Stoick the Vast.”

As a set of sea green eyes assessed him from top to bottom, Stoick had a hunch that this god was distinctly less impressed by him than Thor had been.

“You’re late,” Thor rumbled, eyes still pinning the Night Fury before him to the ground.

“An important detour that couldn’t be avoided, brother, and we have much more important matters to discuss right now anyway.  _This_ is the behemoth who felled you, Rúni?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stealing a glance at Thor, the dragon shook its head slightly.  “No, Uncle.  I-I messed up, okay?  Since SOMEONE-,“ it gave Thor a very pointed look, “-expressly FORBID me from ever setting foot on Berk, I had to send Trackers to search for him, and they gave me the wrong target.”  It winced, gaze flickering to Stoick for a moment.  “He isn’t the One Who Shot Me Down, Dad.  His scent’s close, but I know it’s not the same.”

“Oh good,” the visiting god answered without missing a beat.  “I was worried when I first walked in and saw this giant, hulking heap of muscle.”  He eyed Stoick’s small forehead, clearly sizing up the brain that lay underneath and finding it disappointing.

Stoick decided he didn’t like him.

“Brother!” Thor reprimanded, now glaring at the smaller god in Stoick’s defense.  “There is no reason to be so offensive!  Don’t you know who this is?”

The god waved his hand dismissively.  “Of course.  I said his name already, didn’t I?  Chief Stoick the Vast, a man capable of winning against mountains, with muscles made of iron and a will as strong as the branches of Yggdrasil itself.  All very admirable qualities.  I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” Stoick interjected, very much insulted indeed.

“But the warrior we are looking for, brother, is one of cunning.  A giant simply cannot beat a gnat no matter how hard he strikes.”

The dragon snorted.  “Oh, thanks so much for that charming comparison, Uncle.  Much appreciated, really.”

“I can always count on you to enjoy my compliments, Rúni.  Why no one else seems to be able to is beyond me.”  The god actually looked agreeable with a genuine, playful grin, but when he turned back to the two men, the grin was replaced with a serious expression that exuded a slight chill.  “So as _mighty_ as Stoick the Vast may be, he is not the one who trapped Rúni.”

Stoick didn’t like the dark look on Thor’s brow as the god looked to him.  “Is this true, Stoick?”

But what could he do, except give the truth?  “It is.  I have never caught a Night Fury.  No one has ever even seen one.”

“Didn’t anyone report catching one to you?” the smaller god pried.  “Your people consider it an honor.  Did no one brag about it?”

The two divine beings and the one of Hel – Stoick just could not seem to accept the Night Fury’s parentage – turned to him.  Stoick stared back, thinking for a moment, before shaking his head.

“Not a word.  Then again, if…he,” Stoick forced himself to say, “managed to escape, no one would dare to make such a claim without being able to back it up with…a body.”  He winced, eyeing the beast’s father and trying not to look too cowardly.  Thankfully, Thor seemed to take the fact that his illegitimate son was a desperately sought-after prize amongst the bloody Vikings fairly well.

The palace was silent as the gods thought and the dead man and his deadly killer waited.  Although Stoick had no clue what they were waiting for.  In fact –

“Why am I here?  I’m honored to be here and have this chance to speak with you,” Stoick added as diplomatically as he could, “but why?”

The brothers – although there was no family resemblance Stoick could see – exchanged looks.  The beast shifted uncomfortably.

“There’s nothing for it,” Thor finally said.

“It’s Fate now,” the second one agreed.

“It could have been far worse.”

“It could have been far better.”

“I disagree.”

“I don’t.”

“Stoick can do it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe it’s better this way.”

“It isn’t, but it is what it is.”

“You just don’t like him.”

“That I don’t.”

“Rude.”

“Honest.”

Thor barked out a laugh.  “Hah!”

“In this case,” the second god conceded before turning to Stoick and going up a step, holding out his arms grandiosely, his cape waving behind him in a wind Stoick couldn’t feel.  Thor looked exasperatedly patient.

“Stoick the Vast,” the god began in a grand voice, “you have been called forth to the Palace of Thor-“

“Uh, guys?”

“-to be tasked with a mission from the Gods Ourselves-“

“Guys!”

The god lowered his arms, sending the dragon a dirty look.  “What?  _What_ , Rúni?  Can’t you see I’m trying to give a presentation here?”

“You need to work on your style.  You’re too theatrical for the setting,” the dragon deadpanned, briefly bold.

“Hmph.”  The god crossed his arms, his spear leaning against the marble behind him.  “Now what was so important you had to interrupt me?”

“Well…before you go through with this, there’s…one more thing you need to know,” the dragon said, once again refusing to meet the eyes of the men.  “Ah…there was one other…complication…”  It crumbled under Thor’s stormy look.  “He dodged, Dad.  I couldn’t- I missed.  He’s…dead.”

Stoick barely got to see Thor’s face turn a dark burgundy before he was whipped around by the deceptively strong god of green, their noses mere inches apart.

“Hey, what are you-!”

The god ignored him, leaning forward to peer into a blustering Stoick’s eyes, observing first one, then the other.  Then he grabbed his ear and when Stoick gave an unmanly yelp at being man-handled so, the god grabbed his beard and squinted at his tongue.

“Stahp thha-UMPF!”

Stoick was abruptly whirled around again as the god plucked a few hairs, rolling them around in his fingers and muttering incomprehensibly to himself.  Then Stoick lurched when the god grabbed his left hand and eyed it, mouthing whatever he was reading.

It was around then that Stoick realized who this probably was.

He tried to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his tunic when Loki finally finished his inspection and stepped back, nodding.

“He’s dead alright.  Complication indeed.  Well, this changes nothing.”

“What?!”  The dragon’s head shot up and it bounded to the green-eyed Trickster.  “No!  He’s only here because I didn’t realize it wasn’t him until I had already flown him halfway here!”

“When you brought him here, you chose him, Rúni,” Loki answered, busily going through the folds in his cape and pulling out the strangest of things – bottles and jugs, pouches, boxes, just flat-out _stuff_.  Thor eyed the mess this ‘brother’ of his was making on his floor.

“I assume we can still send him back?” he asked, arms folded over his chest.  His gaze settled on the busy Trickster as the dragon looked back and forth between them.

“Of course, he just needs a few items, and…where did I put it?!”  Stoick stared as Loki started grabbing handfuls of stuff seemingly out of midair and tossing them onto the growing piles on the ground.

“No, but it isn’t him!” the Night Fury insisted, dodging the flying junk.

“It is now.  Don’t argue this, son,” Thor answered, still focused on Loki.

“But it can be changed, right?  Can’t it?  Uncle, you do things like this?” the dragon asked desperately.

“This is a rare case where your father is right, Rúni,” Loki answered distractedly.  Thor made a noise of indignation.  “The future comes from the past and the past can’t be taken out.  Well, it can, I suppose, but that leads to a gooey mess and so many repercussions you would never be able to fix everything, even if you had a thousand lifetimes.  The Norns can’t take their work out for this very reason, Rúni, and they’re much more talented than I.”

The dragon’s head shot up at the mention of the Fate Weavers.

“And don’t even think about asking them to try, Rúni,” Thor warned.  The dragon backed down again, looking sufficiently scolded.  “You are going to fly this man straight back to where he came from and follow through with what you started.”

The dragon nodded sullenly.

“Now Stoick,” Thor continued and Stoick stood at attention.  “While my sloppy and rude brother goes digging through his disorderly pile of garbage-“

“It’s not garbage!”

“-I will explain everything to you.”

Stoick nodded, taking a seat on the bench Thor gestured to.  The warrior god sat beside him, elbows on his knees.  Before he started, though, he called out to the Night Fury.

“Rúni!  You will wait outside.  I assume he came in a ship?”

“Yes, father.”

Thor nodded.  “Go watch it.  We can’t let anyone know of its presence.”

The dragon huffed unhappily.  “Yes, father.”

It slipped gracefully out of the room and Thor took a deep breath.

“First, I want to apologize.  I know what your death means for Berk and what Berk means to you.  I can understand the drive you feel to protect it,” the god said, eyes staring at the long wheat before them.  “I’m sorry my son took you away from it.”

An apology?  Stoick felt thrown off balance as he scrambled for a response.  As nice as the apology was, it carried very little weight _because he was still dead_.  It went against everything in him to cross the gods, and he sorely did not want to disappoint the god he had always looked up to, but a Viking had to what a Viking had to do.  “I can’t say I forgive him,” he answered, eyes also on the wheat.  “As one father to another, I can say that I won’t take vengeance on him.  But the next time he attacks Berk…assuming I’m going back to Berk,” because that still seemed just a little farfetched to him, “I can’t just stay on the sidelines.”

Thor nodded, ignoring Loki’s cursing in the background.  “I can’t expect you to.  It’s a pity our lives clash so with each other, but you have been called up here to help with the solution.”

Stoick turned to look at him.  “Solution?”

“My son cannot live here,” Thor began in the manner of someone about to start a long, tiresome story.  He folded his hands, observing his fingers as they intertwined.  “I cannot permit the other gods to know of his existence because…I fear too greatly for his future.”

Stoick’s eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle the meaning of that comment out.  Thor looked conflicted, glaring at the wheat before them again.

“It’s a very logical fear,” Loki assured them from a distance before going back to his search.

“Aye.”  Thor inhaled deeply before letting it all out in a great gust.  “So he must live in Midgard.”

“Why didn’t you choose one of the other realms?” Stoick questioned.

Thor shook his head.  “He cannot live in Asgard or Vanaheim in the sight of the gods.  I will not send him to the realms beneath Midgard for I cannot keep an eye on him at all in there and I would worry over him too much.”  At Stoick’s puzzled look he elaborated further.  “The dwarves of Svartalfheim seek dragons for their labor and the elves of Alfheim are as relentless as they are fair, a cunning race.  I will not send him where he will be forced to be a slave.  I did briefly consider Hel’s realm, knowing that he has strong relations there, but she does not keep a good eye on her borders.  They’re fuzzy at best and absent at worst.  She is irresponsible and jealous – don’t you dare interrupt me, Loki, you know she is –“

“She has right to be jealous,” Loki murmured, his grip tight on the glassware he was currently holding.

“-and the bounty hunters of the Underworld would be able to reach Rúni with ease.”

“I suggested Jotunheim,” Loki commented as he peered at the label on a bottle.

Thor glared at him.  “I will not send my son to the land of our sworn enemies!”  He slammed a fist onto his leg before returning to the story.  “And Niflheim and Muspelheim are too primordial.  I would only send people there to die.  Of all the places, Midgard appeared safest for him.”

Loki snorted.  “But the safest of places still have their dangers.  Too bad we didn’t see this one.”

“The Vikings?” Stoick guessed, thinking of all the raids he had seen over the years.  Men had driven themselves mad trying to track down the most elusive of dragons.  The dragon trapping business had sprung up like dandelions during the summer.  The number of people who would do anything to get their hands on a Night Fury, even just a single scale, must have been a terrifying thought for the Night Fury’s protectors.  “Us?  We cannot touch him.”

To Stoick’s utter amazement, Thor shook his head.  “Not you.  I can keep him safe from the humans with ease.”

“Not us?” Stoick exclaimed incredulously.  “Not _humans_?  But who, or what – what else _is_ there?  The Night Fury is, is at the top of the world!” Stoick exclaimed, so put off by this news that his tongue stumbled over his words.  “Who, what, would be strong enough to challenge him?”  Another thought came to him, a slightly frightening one.  “What would be strong enough to be able to, to stand up to _you?_ ”

“There is a creature, a monster, on Midgard,” Thor answered.  “Tall as a mountain, so large a full grown man looks like a mere fish fry next to it,” Thor gestured, pinching his forefinger and thumb together.  “Its hunger is insatiable but it doesn’t hunt.”

Loki snorted again, still going through a pile of jars and bottles.  “More like it’s too much of a pain in the ass to bother getting up.”

“Do you mind, brother?” Thor asked, turning around to glare at the Trickster.

“Nah, not at all,” Loki waved back.

Thor turned back to Stoick, looking him in the eye.  “It doesn’t need to hunt.  It lures the dragons in,” he claimed, bringing his fingers to his chest, “like insects to a great flame, and eats them.  Eventually it grew smart enough to realize it would receive a better investment if it sent the dragons out to hunt instead of simply eating all the dragons in the area.  And this is how my son-“  Thor’s eyes squeezed shut and the god’s lips curled into a snarly grimace, looking loathing and mournful and enraged all at once.  “My son has the blood of the gods, but he is still a dragon and this nefarious piece of work has turned all the dragons into slaves.”

Stoick felt breathless.  Well, he was dead, but…”All of them?”

“All of them,” Thor confirmed.  “I am so grateful Rúni can resist the Demon’s call to some extent, thank my Father.  He describes it as an incessant, mesmerizing chant of ‘ _bring and leave, bring and leave_ ’ that swallows everything else.  But he is not completely immune to it and when the dragons are sent out to hunt for large game, he must fly with them.”  Thor twisted his head in aggravation.  “I tried to _protect_ him from such things, kept him as close to home as I dared…and still, it’s all for  naught!”

Stoick watched the god’s hands turn into fists, the knuckles growing white.  He had…no idea what to say.  No idea what to even think of it all.

“Which is why you’re here,” Loki commented with a lighter tone, walking up to them with a glass jar held up to the light so he could observe its contents more clearly.  “We were originally going to ask the One Who Shot Rúni Down to destroy this thing, since he, or she for all we know, achieved the impossible once, but I guess we’re sending you in instead.  Hold this.”

Stoick accepted the jar Loki thrust into his hands, peering into it in an effort to determine what it was for himself.  The dark color was indistinguishable.  All in all, it just looked like a pile of gross.

“Why didn’t you do this earlier?” he asked the two gods, too preoccupied with the thing in his hands to catch the quick glance they exchanged.

“No one was suited to the task earlier,” Loki answered simply.  “And we…were not ready to conduct it either.  And I really need to label these things more clearly.”

“Stoick,” Thor picked up, “do you think you can defeat this monster, this parasite?”

Stoick chewed on his lip, the movement going unseen thanks to his thick beard.

Could he?  A giant as big as a mountain with the power to control the dragons…a monster that made the Night Fury bow down like a common thrall, could challenge the wrath of Thor, and he, a dead mortal, was supposed to try to take it down when beings so much more powerful than him…couldn’t?

“This,” he asked, voice gruff, “is what’s been plaguing my people, for three hundred years?”

“The dragons have learned how to deal with Vikings,” Loki answered.  “Your troubles with them won’t be over.  You’ll still encroach on each other and fight with each other.”

“But not like you do now,” Thor interjected.  “Once free of the monster’s enslavement, the dragons will be far less willing to take the risks of a raid.  Attacks will decrease.  They won’t be gone, but they will avoid you as much as they can.”

“Only the truly desperate ones will bother you,” Loki concluded.  “But right now, they’re all desperate.  What is your answer, Stoick?”

His answer, Stoick felt, was obvious.

“I don’t know how on Midgard I’m going to kill it.  But we’re Vikings and we’re damn well going to try.  And if we don’t succeed,” he said, because success seemed like a ridiculously long shot, “at least everything will be prepared so that one of our descendants will.”

Thor started to beam like a child at Snoggletog again.  Loki wore a mixture of a smirk and a grin, looking more pleased than jubilant.  “That’ll do it,” the god of thunder crowed, slamming a hand onto Stoick’s back.  Stoick lurched forward, feeling everything in him quake from the hit, but he was grinning, too.  “Loki?”

The jar was snatched out of Stoick’s grip and Stoick was snatched out of his seat as Loki unscrewed the lid.  “Thor, ‘old ‘im ‘own for ‘e,” the Trickster spoke around the cap in his mouth.  He spat it out and pulled a third container from the crook of his arm, dumping this and that into it in a fashion that seemed extremely haphazard to Stoick.

“Er…what are you doing?”

Thor smiled cheerfully as he held Stoick’s arms to his sides in a grip like a vice.  “Loki’s just fixing you up for an extended stay on Midgard.  Just relax.”

Stoick did not relax.  He thought it to his credit that he didn’t struggle – too much.

“Brother, you’d better leave the explanations to me on this one,” Loki said as he stirred the foul-looking paste with his fingers.  “Basically, you’re dead, Stoick.”

“I could have told him that,” Thor huffed.

Loki glared.  “Silence, O Unknowledgeable One!”  He flicked some of the nasty stuff in Thor’s direction, and hence in Stoick’s direction and the Viking Chief flinched when it landed right on his face.  “So you’re dead, which means you no longer belong on Midgard.  But where do you belong?  Now that is an excellent question.  There is, of course, the part of you that will always be ‘Stoick the Vast,’” he said, imitating Stoick’s rough voice before licking the second concoction – a rough powder – on his fingers and pulling a face.  “Eugh.  Anyway, that distinctly human character belongs in Helheim somewhere, probably below Berk itself where it will linger just out of reach of the village.  Then there’s your hamingya, your ‘luck.’  Hamingya are a strange bunch.  Very good at getting lost and they tend to wander around a lot.”

Loki sniffed at the powder again.  “A-CHOO!!”  He sniffed again.  “Whoops, too much gecko gullet.  Anyway, hamingya are hard to sense, but they make terrible conversationalists anyway so it’s no loss.  They aren’t very smart, too fixated on the search for their human soul to realize much else.  It’s kind of like dealing with a devoted dog searching for its master.  That’s why they generally settle in a descendant with the same name as the ancestor they belonged to.  Can’t tell the difference.

“And there’s the fylgja, which I’m sure you’ve heard of,” Loki said, leaning in to stare into Stoick’s eyes again.  He tsked.  Stoick didn’t know what he was seeing, but apparently it wasn’t very good.  Loki worked faster, making a third potion, this one looking like some sort of liquid.

“Wanna guess what it is?” Loki asked, grinning like a little boy at a festival game.

“A bear?” Stoick tried.

Loki threw his head back and laughed – no, he cackled, Stoick corrected himself.  “Not even close!  Not even close…You know what?  I don’t think I’m going to tell you what it is, simply because you’ll be upset and we don’t have time for you to be upset.”

“Now that is just mean,” Thor protested.  Stoick nodded in agreement.

“I’m not nice,” Loki answered, not sounding sorry at all.  “You’ll find out soon enough anyway, Stoick.  But basically, the soul is comprised of millions upon millions of pieces.  Even the three we just discussed can be disassembled into smaller bits; for example, the soul can be split into the will and the desire and these can in turn be split again.  When a mortal dies, all these pieces start to drift apart.  Give it a week or two and they’ll be on opposite sides of Yggdrasil.”

“So that’s what’s happening to me?” Stoick asked, giving the three jars that were for Loki-knew-what an apprehensive look.  All of a sudden being dead seemed less like the next step in life and more like a nightmare.  He could just envision him in pieces, an arm floating around in the clouds, a leg hopping down a road in Helheim.  He shivered.  Ugh.

“And we can’t send our great Champion to Midgard in pieces,” Loki confirmed.  “It would send everyone running for the hills – or the waves, as it were.  So the first thing we’re going to do is give them a little reinforcement.”

“With one of those?”  Stoick nodded reluctantly at the jars.  The liquid was glowing.  And he swore one of the goos was blinking at him.  The last one, the one that made Stoick’s beard curl from distaste as though he were staring at month-old rotten fish heads…it was _baby girl pink_.

“Nope.  With a whole lot of this.”

Both Stoick and Thor stared at the white bottle in Loki’s hand as he twisted the orange cap and squirted a bit of unappealing, viscous white stuff out of the top.

Thor was incredulous.  “Loki!  You didn’t-“

“I’m telling you, this stuff works _wonders_ , Thor.  Now Stoick, you’re going to have to bear with me here.  I know it isn’t particularly pleasant to be coated in Superglue, but it’s necessary.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seems to have daddy issues... Anyway, I did a lot of research for this chapter on Norse lore. It's actually really interesting! Credit for my newfound knowledge goes to the Viking Answer Lady (whose website I think a lot of people in this fandom use) and primarily to Dan McCoy, whose website is a lot less dense and therefore easier for the casual dabbler, aka, mua. I'm trying to stick primarily to the Norse viewpoint of the gods, but I did pull the adopted sibling relationship from the Marvel universe. And their images. That's about all I'm going to use from Marvel. Hopefully no one's too disappointed.
> 
> So, I would go through all this writing again, but in all honesty I am, a, really tired, and b, really excited to get it out, so here you go! An "early" update :D What can I say, the scene in Thor's palace has just been itching to get written. I'd set the next one...end of August? I need to get to work on some other projects before I continue this.
> 
> And last but not least (I will never get tired of saying this) thanks for reading and thanks for all your support! It always makes my day :)
> 
> ~Sheisa


	5. Various States of Limbo

**A Chief Among Children**

Now, traditionally, the Chief’s ceremony took place immediately, rain or shine, blizzard or breeze, lightning strike, nugget-sized hail storm, volcanic eruption, Ragnarok, whatever. Immediately meant immediately and the miniscule but momentous ritual happened _immediately_.

Except hers had yet to even be mentioned. Astrid scowled down at her too-hot stew, the steam curling up in front of her face and scalding her tongue.

Day Two was coming to a close and lo and behold, Astrid hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Gothi’s old grey hair. In fact, no one had seen the mysterious Elder who seemed to be present at all the right moments and then evaporated into thin air the rest of their lives. And while she grudgingly admitted that it was probably the Elder’s own decision to not show herself when duty called (because no one messed with the wisewoman who could weave your very fate)…while it was the Elder’s decision, Astrid was kind of really sure it was actually the _Hiccup_ in the system to blame.

She stabbed viciously at a piece of meat in her bowl of stew, ignoring and ignored by the loud bustle Vikings made in the Great Hall come náttmál. People settled down in close-knit groups, lined up elbow to elbow down the tables, and she caught the eye of Snotlout as he entered the Hall, nodding in a vague sort of greeting/weary expectation/grudging invitation to sit by her once he got his food. He seemed to pick up on her edgy mood from across the room and gave a noncommittal half-shrug.

Fine. Astrid went back to devouring her soup, immediately lost once again in her sour thoughts.

Hiccup…her hands tightened around the spoon…She didn’t know why, exactly, he was denying her her ceremony. But she could name so many reasons that one had to be right.

Bottom line, useless men always tried to snatch power they didn’t deserve. The half-troll was probably hoping to usurp the position that Stoick had been trusted her with, _her_ , not him! Oh, how she would love to march up to him, throw him around some with her ax and show him how delusional he was being, demand that he think about his home for once and STOP dragging Berk down. The whole speech lined up in her head, sentence by sentence. She mentally spat the words out at a shocked Hiccup, envisioning his face at each one.

He was like a nasty little Terrible Terror, clinging to the edge of his father’s cape to hitch a ride to the top of the Nest above the worthy men and women. He was as selfish and greedy as a draconic king, as despicable and irresponsible as Loki the Trickster. He was a slimy, blood-sucking parasite she wouldn’t care enough about to squish with the heel of her boot, wouldn’t want to even step on in the first place. You are a disgrace, she would say. Remember everything you did, how many times you razed Berk to the ground, practically gave our food away to those monsters, created impossible messes for your father to clean up…you are the biggest disgrace Berk’s ever seen.

It was, she admitted, downright vicious of her. It was also, however, all quite truthful of her. The only reason Berk wasn’t a lifeless piece of rock at the bottom of the ocean right now was because Chief had always been there to pull off some impossible quick fix. He was – had been – an, or really, _the_ expert.

But now, he _wasn’t_ _here_. It was all up to her and, bottom line, she didn’t have the power to do it.

_Not yet._

In a blink, Astrid flicked her head, making the thick braid that had nearly been dangling into her stew land with a heavy, satisfying thump behind her back.

Hiccup, she backtracked, refusing to think such powerful thoughts in the publicity of the Great Hall where everyone could see her face, Hiccup had every reason to prevent her from being chief. Not that she hadn’t been chief over the past few days, because she had certainly acted like it, and people were definitely treating her like it, but she didn’t have the Title. And that bothered her. She hadn’t actually been given the Right to settle the arguments she was settling or the Right to make the decisions she was making. She didn’t have the Right to lead Berk the way she was doing…that, by default, currently belonged to _Hiccup_.

And that left the question, when was this dweeb going to hand the Chiefdom over to her? Astrid loathed how the words rang like a cracked bell in her head, asked by an impatient power monger instead of an honorable leader. She could never say it out loud – any politician could use it to chip away at the village’s faith in her, twisting the stage so that Hiccup was the righteous player and she the selfish one.

It would give Hiccup a damn good opening.

So she sat tight on her stool, seething inwardly like a boiling ocean, itching to move forward, to make progress, _to get that Odin-forsaken ceremony out of the way so she could actually do what Chief Stoick had WANTED her to do_. Had TRUSTED her to do.

She took another mouthful of stew, thoughtful scowl firmly in place.

She didn’t want that trust to be misplaced. By Odin, she would see that it wasn’t.

“Whoa! Bad mood?” Tuffnut asked, sinking into his seat across from her. He raised a hand to casually yank on Ruffnut’s braid so she fell onto the seat beside her brother and earned a sharp flick to the ear that made him yell.

Astrid’s sharp gaze returned to her stew. “Just lost in thought,” she answered curtly.

The mere word made Tuffnut wrinkle his nose in distaste. “Ugh. I remember when that happened to me. It was terrible. Why would you want to get lost in _that?_ ”

Ruffnut gave an ugly sneer. “That never happened to you.”

“Did too! I got so lost, I couldn’t walk straight for days!” Tuffnut declared.

“You don’t have enough thoughts to get lost in, muttonhead!” Ruffnut shot right back.

And so on.

Astrid’s already tense nerves stretched a little further. How, how, she despaired, were these people her colleagues?

“You guys are 19 now,” she informed them.

“Are we?” Tuffnut turned to his twin, looking puzzled

“Yep,” Ruffnut confirmed. “Born nineteen years, eleven months, seventeen days, and two hours ago. On a dark and stormy night.”

Astrid ignored that; she was used to far more bizarre tangents coming out of the Nuts’ mouths and hadn’t been sidetracked by them since she was nine years old. “Look, you’re nineteen. You are adults. Don’t you think it’s past time you grew up?”

Tuffnut stared at her, aghast. “Grow up? What?”

Ruffnut mirrored her brother’s look, staring at Astrid as though the golden blonde girl was the crazy one.

“…Never mind.”

Absolutely disgusted, Astrid went back to her half-eaten stew, taking a hearty bite that effectively ended all conversations with her, and not for the first time, Astrid silently wondered if these people could really be called her friends anymore.

“Die, die, DIE!” Ruffnut cackled as she poked holes into her brother’s stew, popping the vegetables that got stuck on her fork into her mouth.

Tuffnut sneered, nailing her in the nose with a flying carrot courtesy of his fork-turned-slingshot.

Astrid eyed them, staying quiet. Violent, highly adept in a fight, but incapable of understanding anything from ‘when the dragons raid, it’s bad because we don’t have as much to eat during the winter and subsequently starve to death’ to ‘things fall when you drop them’ and beyond They lived in their own nutty, upside-down world and just couldn’t seem to get a grasp on the reality that was Berk. Most days it made Astrid want to scream with frustration.

The table jumped, sloshing their stews and making Tuffnut half snort, half choke on his spoonful. Ruffnut snickered.

“Wha-! Oh, hey, guys!” Fishlegs grinned, finally looking up from the book that seemed to grow bigger once it was out of his giant hands and on the table. The twins sneered at it with distaste together. Meanwhile Fishlegs set his plate, heaping with chicken drumsticks and stuffing, on the table with a clatter and plopped down onto the bench beside Astrid.

“Hello, Fishlegs,” she replied dutifully, more out of habit than anything else.

Tuffnut hit Fishlegs in the face with a perfect bulls-eye. Ruffnut cackled again, stealing more of her brother’s stew despite the fact that her own was untouched and the perfect temperature.

Fishlegs, Astrid continued her soliloquy, was perhaps the only person besides her to understand Berk’s situation – but Fishlegs was the geekiest, nerdiest, biggest, well, _coward_ Astrid knew. He was perfectly content to sit behind his stacks of books and let everyone else handle the problems. She couldn’t tell if he actually wasn’t ready to be an adult or if he just didn’t want the responsibility.

Footsteps walked up from the left.

“Move over, man. Hello, Love.”

Gods, Astrid almost puked. It was one of _those_ nights. Like her day hadn’t been horrible enough already.

She could sum up Snotlout in two words: brawny and stupid. Convinced that his muscles could get him anything he wanted, Snotlout thought constantly about killing dragons and getting laid. And Astrid had broken his bones for it. Several times.

The shortest but most impressive member of their group sat on the edge of the bench by Tuffnut and shoved the twins down so he was sitting right across from ‘Love.’ Ruffnut smacked her brother in response and thus began a full-out catfight between the twins.

Snotlout shook his head. “And this is why you don’t get any ladies, Tuff. You act like a juvenile. The women like a man,” he puffed up with pride. Astrid pointedly focused on her rapidly diminishing stew instead of his wink.

“Actually,” Fishlegs droned enthusiastically, “we’re all technically still juveniles mentally.” He eyed the twins, pulling his book protectively to his side and out of range of flying stew. “While physically, we mature in the early to mid- teenage years-“

“Yeah, I can’t hear you over the sound of a mature man eating!” Snotlout called across the table, digging into his meal in a grotesque way that made Astrid lose her formerly hearty appetite.

Maybe part of it was how alone she felt.

She cared. She really did. They weren’t bad people, and they really had been her friends at some point.

But at this point, they weren’t the fire brigade anymore. They weren’t the fresh blood in dragon training or the extra hands getting muscle and chopping wood for the winter. They were supposed to be adults. Odin’s ghost, she was the Chief!

(Basically.)

Snotlout leaned over his bowl to send her that flirtatious smile that wasn’t half as attractive as he thought. “Hey, Babe-Argh!“

His elbow fell off the table and his face met his stew.

_Smack!_ “Cheek-ouch!”

_Thwap!_ “Witch!”

_Plop!_ “You know, I would deeply appreciate it if you would stop throwing food all over the plac-EE! My BOOK!” Moving faster than Astrid had ever seen him, even in dragon training, Fishlegs grabbed a flimsy handkerchief out of nowhere and tenderly dabbed the hunk of meat and sauce off the leather cover.

She wasn’t lonely. She _wasn’t_ _lonely_ because she was a capable, full-fledged, adult Viking entering her prime.

Still, sitting in the midst of her frivolous, cowardly, naïve, ignorant, immature…the list went on, but sitting in the midst of her childhood friends, Astrid was indeed very alone.

* * *

 

**Lost in the Fog**

The clouds were like a wispy sea and the ship – his funeral ship – floated in their midst effortlessly, bobbing up and down with every wind. It was disconcertingly akin to being in the fog that surrounded the Bestial Archipelago – no matter how hard he squinted, he couldn’t make out anything past the bow of his ship. His senses felt clogged. His head felt like it was full of cobwebs. It was incredibly disorienting.

Thor appeared completely unbothered by it as he stomped off to find his errant son, the clouds roiling thickly beneath his feet and swirling away to form a clear path. His figure was promptly swallowed up into the gray.

Thus was Stoick the Vast, Chief of Berk, mighty warrior and demon slayer left all alone in the company of the Trickster. His gut twisted uncomfortably.

“Well this is perfect,” Loki started, staring off in the direction Thor had headed with a gaze that would have made an eagle shiver. “I wanted to have a few private words with you before you left.” Stoick felt his beard prickle as Loki turned that gaze to him and smiled so pleasantly Stoick’s heart made a desperate bid for escape through his throat. The word ‘private’ echoed like a metallic clang in his head.

“About what?”

The Trickster set his magicked bottles down and leaned against the side of the ship, posture casual. “Just something I wanted to make sure we were clear on. Thor, of course, would never say this, would probably think it absolutely scandalous to even consider-“ Loki rolled his eyes “-but you could say that I just don’t have his good faith. Or really, that I’m just not as _naïve_ as he is.”

Stoick did not like where this conversation was heading.

“You’re his Champion now. Do you know what that entails?”

“That I complete the Quest he’s set out for me,” he answered after a moment’s deliberation searching for Loki’s point. It was completely escaping his grasp at the moment and Stoick’s muscles twitched, his hands curling up into tight fists. He was not accustomed to being at a disadvantage when it came to talking. It was dangerous.

This conversation was very, very dangerous, Stoick thought as the fog curled around them so he could barely even see the shields lined up by his side now.

“It means,” Loki corrected, absently observing his unusually sharp-looking fingernails, “that he trusts you to complete your Quest. And do you know what he’s trusting you with?” Loki paused, assessing Stoick with unnaturally green eyes – just a few shades shy of toxic green eyes. “His _son_. That’s _his son_ he’s trusting you with, Stoick.”

The Chief was silent.

“He sees you as a kindred spirit,” Loki enunciated. “He sees you as a father devoted to the protection of his own son – Hiccup, isn’t it?” Stoick felt a surge of protectiveness rush through him at the thought of the Trickster god knowing _his son_. “And he expects you to do the same for Rúni out of some sort of respect for him. I, however,” and here Loki practically prowled forward to stand directly in front of Stoick, staring him right in the eye, “I know exactly what you are, Chief, and I’d like to remind you that Rúni is not only Thor’s son, but also MY nephew. And since I don’t trust you with his safety, I’m going to give you a damn good reason to care about it. Are you listening?”

Stoick could do nothing but stare back into those cold, cold eyes that demanded his focus, his ears…and above all, his compliance. He was not a Viking Chieftain anymore. Before this strange man, no, this _god_ that somehow towered above him, fire in his eyes and ice in his voice, cunning and knowledge Stoick could never even dream of shining in the foreign way he stood and the foreign way he spoke, Stoick had been demoted to nothing more than a mere, fleeting puff of dirt in the vast life of Yggdrasil. Next to this being, Stoick was hyperaware of how he was _nothing_.

“If Rúni loses so much as a single scale either because of you or your Vikings,” Loki promised in a voice so full, shadowy flames flickering like dark serpent tongues, “I will tear you apart piece by piece and then bit by bit and _then_ morsel by morsel until not so much as a speck of the soul of Stoick the Vast remains – and I promise it will hurt, too.”

The Chief was as still as ice. His breath froze in his lungs. His hands…were trembling, he realized as he stared into the eyes of the god, not daring to look away. His hands were trembling. Nothing had ever come this close to making him feel such terror before – not even the horrible sound of a killing machine diving through the night.

Stoick Haddock feared for his life.

Then the Trickster stood straight again and broke their stare-off, allowing Stoick to slump against the rail. The shadows seemed to melt. The eerie impression of fire was gone. He could see the ship again. Stoick grappled with himself to regain some sense of calm, some self-control in the suffocating fog with the deity who…the deity...Stoick turned away, gazing into the fog as well.

Thor help me, he silently prayed, swallowing the bump in his throat.

Loki idly traced a pattern on the rail, humming as he did so and appearing for all the world as though the world was normal.

_Thor help me_.

“-sorry I’m not well-acquainted with the layout of your _moat_ , Dad-“ a faint voice said.

“You found your way well enough the first time,” answered another.

“The _first_ time, all I had to do was fly straight until I hit a wall and then follow the wall to the door! The _second_ time, I had no direction to follow and to top it all off, Uncle’s doing his weird fog trick agai-!“

A gusty sigh. The clouds swirled. “Hush, Rúni. The reason I asked your uncle to do that was to prevent anyone from discovering this. Don’t detract from his efforts by shouting for all Asgard to hear.” Stoick felt an immense wave of relief swell up inside him when Thor stepped out of the clouds and onto the deck, although he did keep a careful eye on the black shadow that hovered above the god’s head. At the moment, however, Stoick would feel safer with his head in the beast’s mouth than anywhere in a ten foot radius of Loki.

Meanwhile, the god of mischief had seemingly returned to his more light-hearted, snarky self, cold-blooded threat forgotten. “Okay, Thor, time to get these two on the Road,” Loki said, clapping his hands together. “Chop chop!”

Thor paused, placing a hand on his belt where his famous hammer hung, before appearing to come to a resolve. “Very well. Stoick, it is customary for a Champion to receive a gift from the benefactor of his Quest. I have decided,” Thor said, eyes closing in just a moment of indecision, a tiny fraction of a minute of hesitation, “…to give you Mjolnir.”

Loki levelled a deadpanned stare at his brother. “You’re kidding.”

Stoick felt much the same way, shocked speechless. The weapon Thor pulled from the depths of his cloak was beautiful. The shape of the metal head was absolutely pristine. The wood was polished to smooth perfection, and with a leather strap, the hammer was a deadly killing machine. Stoick hardly dared to wrap his fingers around the handle, the shape of the wood fitting into his fist like a newborn in their mother’s arms. “Amazing,” the Chief breathed.

Thor smiled proudly. “She is.”

“Do you realize how flashy that thing is?” Loki declared. The Night Fury watched from its perch on a beam above them, silent.

“Hush, brother!”

“Don’t you hush me!” Loki stomped his foot. “One swing and Father is going to know exactly what we’re up to!”

“There will only be one battle,” Thor intoned, sending a brief glare at his brother before returning his attention to the dead mortal holding his beloved weapon. Stoick was still admiring her, turning her over and over in his hands, testing the leather, running his fingers over the smooth surface of her head. “Stoick, Mjolnir was crafted specifically for my special connections. Using her will bring a lightning storm to your battle and Loki is right – it will alert our father to your…misplacement…and he…” Thor struggled for words, “…really wants you to join his hall.”

“More like desperately covets him to the point of stalking this guy’s every move just waiting for him to drop dead,” Loki muttered out the side of his mouth to the dragon. “You should have heard him going on about Stoick last Snoggletog.”

“Creepy.”

“Indeed.”

“Father cannot know that you are dead,” Thor reinforced, hands on Stoick’s shoulders. Stoick nodded slowly in understanding. “Don’t invoke his name. Don’t even say his name. Don’t even be around people who say his name. And remember – the moment you use Mjolnir is the moment your Quest is over.”

Stoick hung the hammer on his belt with the utmost care. The weapon almost seemed to…hum, vibrating against the rough fabric of his tunic for a moment before it lay still silent, as dull as any other hammer. Still…

“I understand,” he answered quietly.

Thor nodded back. “Good. Loki? I take it you’ve given him your gift?”

“No. Hang on…”

Stoick tried not to shrink back as the deity who wanted him e _rased out of existence_ strode forward, jars in hand.

“This,” Loki instructed, thrusting one bottle of questionable goop into the man’s giant hands, “well, take it!” Stoick managed to wrap his fingers around the concoction on his second try. “This is to keep you stuck together. You might want to take a few sips every couple of days,” he suggested. “And this-“ Ugh, this was the pink potion, Stoick thought in distaste, “-is some lotion to at least keep you from _looking_ like a corpse. Also, if anyone gets dry skin, you might let them try some. It’s a wonderful moisturizer.”

“Loki! Stop marketing your products!”

The dragon snorted as Loki sent his brother a withering glance before turning back to Stoick.

“Let’s see, am I forgetting anythiiing…nope!”

Thor raised an eyebrow. “What, that’s it?”

Loki snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah!”

The backslap Stoick received from the thin god felt like a fly landing on his nose. “Good luck!” And with a pleased nod, the god of mischief sauntered off to the side of the boat.

“That’s not a proper gift!” Thor protested.

“He’s your Champion, not mine!” Loki remarked crossly. He bent his knees, looking ready to jump off the side of the boat and into the swirling clouds below. “Give him a second gift if it’ll make you feel better, but I have a Guardian to distract!”

And with that farewell, the Trickster god sprang, throwing his arms down – and Stoick watched a very large, gleaming black raven wing off into the fog.

The ship stood in silence for a moment as its three occupants collected their thoughts before-

“RÚNI!”

Stoick nearly leapt out of his skin at Thor’s abrupt roar – their words had been quiet for all the time they had been in the clouds, not particularly calm, but hardly louder than the common indoor voice.

“THE ROPES!”

With a single flap, the black dragon became airborne and then nimbly folded its – his – wings, diving down to grab a couple of thick ropes that Stoick followed with his eyes to the bow of his ship.

“I’ll give you a tailwind as far as the Bifrost!” Thor called, leaping off the edge of Stoick’s ship himself – although he did not shift into any sort of animal. Instead the clouds seemed to reach up to meet him, forming a spiraling, surprisingly sturdy staircase. “And Stoick.”

“Yes, sir?”

The look Thor gave him brought Loki’s words to his mind unbidden – ‘ _not as naïve or trusting as Thor_ ’ – and Stoick swallowed, unwilling to look at the great warrior who stood before him and see such crippling traits. But the god wasn’t giving him much choice.

_“Thank you,”_ Thor said, such an earnest look of faith painted across his face that Stoick almost didn’t recognize him. He disappeared into the gray.

Stoick stared after him as the strong, rhythmic thud of wingbeats filled the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my...I am SO sorry that you guys had to wait, like, two months and it's not even a good chapter! I tried to get the plot rolling here, really, I did, but it just wouldn't come!!  
> So oh patient ladies and gentlemen, a filler chapter of what I did get to write, just for you. I am determined to get some real plot down in the next chapter, so no clue when it will be out besides...before 2015. I am really keeping my fingers crossed for Halloween, though. And my toes, too.
> 
> And a big thanks to B. for telling me what you thought! I will do my very best to keep the characters and their development as interesting as I can. *Cackles* My VERY best.
> 
> Happy Autumn!  
> ~Sheisa


	6. My Fair Lady

There were some things that seemed as timeless as Berk island itself, that had always been there and would continue to always be there.

The Thorston twins’ propensity to fight, for example.

Vikings stepped smoothly out of the way, pausing here as the twins rushed past them, lifting a foot there so that the duo could roll freely down the hill while they bent fingers and pulled hair and spat insults at one another. Gobber patiently waited for them to pass, Ruffnut slamming her brother into the wooden pole face-first, before finishing hanging up his clothesline.

At the bottom of the hill, Ruffnut spat on the ground, trying to get the taste of dirt out of her mouth as Tuffnut stood up, dusting off his dirt-stained clothes and sneering. “Nice try, butt-elf.”

Ruffnut scowled back as she nimbly leapt to her feet, dashing for the door. “It’s not over, boot-sniffer!”

Tuffnut slapped her hand away just as she reached for the handle. Ruffnut slammed the heel of her boot on his kneecap. Tuffnut howled and hopped up and down. Ruffnut shoved the door open. Tuffnut grabbed her braid, trying to tug her back. Ruffnut jerked forward.

They both ended up sprawled on the floor at their mother’s feet.

Ruffnut’s mind already had a ‘gods, you’re fatter than a Gronkle that can’t fly!’ comment conjured to throw at her brother, who really wasn’t that heavy but was currently on her back in a way that pressed her chest uncomfortably into the wooden floor and made her wheeze. Her brother probably had a ‘gods, you’re clumsier than a newborn kitty-cat!’ comment or something like that lined up, too.

Ruffnut’s mind shuddered to a stop though as she registered the other pair of boots next to her mother’s.

Standing next to the immensely displeased woman was a stout man, leaning towards the shorter side. His helmet was made out of cheap metal that was adorned with countless dents. The horns attached to it were meant to look like a Monstrous Nightmare’s, curved and dark, but Ruffnut could tell immediately that they weren’t from a dragon at all – they were from a ram.

Instead of leather, his shabby armguards were made of the same string-like material she had worn growing up. His shirt had grease-stains down the front, some permanent, some new, Ruffnut observed suspiciously as she caught sight of the table with the dirty dishes and leftovers on it. And his boots were atrocious, with a hole in the left one that let a noxious smell drift out.

Ech the Six-Toed stared down at them – at her – for a moment before sniffing as though _she_ were the repulsive one.

“The meal was a pleasure,” he told her mother. “Your daughter, however, is not. Thank you. I won’t be coming back.”

Ruffnut cringed as the nauseating middle-aged man stepped over them and out the door. There were approximately ten seconds silence after he left.

“You!” their mother growled, grabbing Tuffnut by the arm and hauling him off his sister. Ruffnut barely got the chance to revel in her un-smooshed torso before she was roughly grabbed and thrown onto her feet, too. Her mother instantly began trying to brush her permanently-stained clothes off, Ruffnut flinching with each sharp-sounding smack. They didn’t actually hurt, but the tense, fast slaps let Ruffnut know that their mother was _furious_. “You two were fighting again?!”

Ruffnut’s lip curled at how incredulous her mother sounded. But they didn’t say anything.

“This behavior is unacceptable!” the woman hissed. Tuffnut went rigid as their mother started trying to comb her fingers through his tangled hair to get the mud and grass out of it. “Unacceptable!”

“That was unacceptable!” Ruffnut cried back. “Did you actually ask Ech to come over here to talk about marrying me to that-that disgusting swine he calls a son!”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. She was absolutely enraged. Ruffnut flinched as her mother grabbed her by the wrist and practically threw her away from her brother. Thin and weedy rather than muscular, both twins took after their father more than their plump but strong mother.

“Well you have nothing to worry about because not even he wants you!” she snapped. “Look at you!” Ruffnut stared resignedly at the warped image of herself in the metal pot. It wasn’t good enough as her mother grabbed her chin and forced her closer. “Look at you! Your face is filthy with mud, your hair is dry as straw! Your lips are so chapped they’re bleeding! You look like a sour bar wench!” Ruffnut viciously twisted her head free of her mother’s grip, eyes simmering with anger.

She looked like Ruffnut, she thought. A very unhappy Ruffnut.

“This ends here and now! Go upstairs! Go get changed into something suitable! And then you come straight back to me, young lady, you hear! Straight back! And if you don’t, I will drag you here by your horrendous hair myself!”

Ruffnut stomped away, listening as her mother began laying the whip, figuratively speaking, into her brother. The angry words followed her upstairs, losing volume but not losing any clarity.

“-start being a man! This childish behavior is unacceptable! You are an adult, and you will act like it!”

Tuffnut mumbled something Ruffnut couldn’t make out as she searched her small clothes-corner.

“’Training’ my ass!” their mother hissed. “Training is taking a weapon and practicing with it, not play-fighting with your sister! She just lost one of the last chances she has at marrying because of your disgraceful behavior!”

Tuffnut said something else.

“A SHIELDMAIDEN! Hah!”

Her twin fell silent. Mother must have been wearing that look. Ruffnut despised that look their mother seemed to give Tuffnut every single day.

“No, this is IT! Go get changed and then come straight back here, young man! RIGHT here!

_“There are going to be some CHANGES in this household, and Aesir help me, you two are going to FOLLOW them!”_

_

Ruffnut’s lips tasted slimy and her hair felt disgustingly oily. As if that wasn’t good enough, she could still feel the pull of the ropes that had kept her shoulders tied to the T-shaped sticks of wood even though they were no longer there. _And_ , as if _that_ wasn’t outrageous enough, her vest was sewn shut around her bosom, hiding the fair bit of cleavage that “only the mead hall whores showed,” her mother had said in disgust as she snapped off the string.

She shut the door gently behind her, severely subdued.

“Hey.”

Ruffnut’s head jerked up.

Tuffnut stepped out of the shadows at the side of their house, a couple of spears in hand.

“What are you still doing here, lame-brain?” she scoffed tiredly. “Mom sent you off to get those sharpened an hour ago.”

“What are you still doing here, cow?” he shot back, nervously twisting the shafts in his grip.

Ruffnut immediately flew into the T-posture – spine straight, shoulders back, chin set. The word curled through her mind. Cow?! Was-was she just called a cow? Their mother had had the gall to call her “damaged” as she roughly rubbed fish oil all over her chapped lips, to call her “impaired” when she burnished the oil into every single strand of hair, right from the scalp all the way down to the more-often-than-not split ends. “Incapable” and “weedy” and Ruffnut could deal with all of that because she liked standing against the salty wind that made her lips crack and the fights with her brother that were more important than learning how to poke at fabric.

But serious hurt lay in store for the moron who dared claim she was un-proportioned and ugly. Because she wasn’t. She had a bust and she had hips, and she was fine the way she was.

(Tuffnut swallowed, the spears almost spinning in his hand now as he watched that all-too-familiar I’m-about-to-kick-your-ass-off-the-edge-of-the-world spark catch like an ocean of oil.)

Ruffnut’s nails looked a lot like claws as she reached out to throttle her terrible twin.

“Ah-ah-ah! Remember what Mother said! You have to be“ – and here he snorted with genuine laughter as he stared at the feral look on his twin’s face – “a lady!” His lips curved into a smile anyway of their own volition no matter how hard he tried to keep his face straight. He snorted again. “You! A lady!”

Ruffnut clearly didn’t give a shit as she followed up with a swift kick that Tuffnut danced away from. In summary, there was a lot punching and swearing and screaming and hair-tugging (and the typical we’re-ignoring-this looks) and Ruffnut was finally starting to feel like Ruffnut rather than a perfect porcelain, stuffed doll, when her brother sprinted away in the direction of the market, the basket on his arm swinging madly.

She stared at the spear she had been trying to stab him with in her hand for a moment.

Then she bent down to pick up the other three her brother had dropped and changed her course for the smithy, a thrill of excitement bubbling up and spinning through her veins.

If Mother ever discovered what Tuffnut had just done for her, then may the dragons mercifully pluck her up and fly her far, far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erp! I'm sorry this is a little late and a shorter chapter than usual...but writing the other two parts will probably take another month and I figured this was long enough to be a chapter, so here's Ruffnut's issues.  
> Happy New Year everyone!  
> ~Sheisa


	7. My Chivalrous Gentleman

Gobber was puffing and frowning and scowling all at once, and his face was turning the absolutely ugliest shade of red Hiccup had ever seen.

Hiccup stared back at him defiantly, with an almost eerie silence that echoed after his mentor’s expected explosion, not daring to make a sound but also refusing to back down, because _no_.

He would not be swayed. This was a good decision, he told himself firmly, eyes narrowing a little further, and don’t let him make you think otherwise.

(“HE’S RIGHT!” a little voice, truly little, miniscule, weedy, sounding a lot like his seven-year-old self, caterwauled in the back of his mind.

“What do you know?” the twenty-year-old Hiccup snapped back mentally.)

Gobber continued to puff like an old grandfather fish and Hiccup could almost see the steam coming out of his ears like a bellows coughing out a cloud of smoke with each breath. The Viking was clearly gathering his scrambled wits about him, about to switch tactics from insulting his top-notch social skills to reasoning with him.

(Hah! Reason, Hiccup thought smugly. Reason, my friend. This was something Gobber would most certainly lose.

“You’re being stupid and selfish!” seven-year-old Hiccup accused in his strident, unpleasant voice.

“It’s not selfish if they win too!” was snapped back. “That’s the whole point of win-win situations!”

“Daddy!” the obnoxious little waif wailed dimly.

Twenty-year-old Hiccup ignored that completely. Haddocks were good at that.)

It really seemed like things were about to come to a head, both Vikings tense and drawn up to their full heights with the master still half a head taller than his apprentice and more heavily muscled than the tightly coiled auburn-head could ever dream of being. They breathed in at the exact same time, Gobber with the great rush of a bellows filling with air and Hiccup like a sharp, biting wind-

When something fell with a harsh clang and someone let loose a startled and irritated curse from the forge.

Gobber’s mouth opened and closed and he looked absolutely wordless, unwilling to say anything further with an eavesdropper the next room over.

Then he lifted a finger and jabbed it in his apprentice’s direction.

“And you know what? You can start by attending to our guest!”

Hiccup straightened in an instant, downright shocked. His jaw fell sluggishly for a moment, eyes widening comically. “Wha…No! No, that’s what _you_ do!”

“And clearly I’ve been depriving you!” Gobber declared, turning away and waving the lad off with one giant hand. “Your people-ing skills are weaker than your muscles!”

This was said in a more serious and less jovial tone than usual but Hiccup, a bit caught up in the impending Task of Hel, didn’t notice as he immediately flew to the defensive.

“My people-ing skills are fine! Honed to perfection!” he denied, waving his arms around wildly and almost catching his sleeve on fire from the burning candle sitting on the shelf without noticing. “You couldn’t find anyone with better people-ing skills in the whole history of Berk!”

(Fifteen-year-old Hiccup joined Seven-year-old Hiccup in his helpless laughter on the ground, his nasally voice carrying a distinctly derisive chord to it that Seven’s giggling didn’t have.)

“Then you shouldn’t have any problems.”

Except Hiccup would have problems because he was _Hiccup_ , Hiccup was sure. And he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he really didn’t have any people-ing skills at all.

Never had, never would.

“Uuuuuugh…I NEVER do this! Why?!” he demanded.

Gobber let the hammer-shaped hand fall onto the table with a more forceful thunk than he usually would. “Because if you think that THAT is a good idea, boy, you had better go out there and rescrew your head, the right way this time! Odin’s Missing Eyeball, that is the most FOOLISH thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth, and I was with you when you were conceptualizing that blasted slingshot that threw around mushrooms of all the Thor-forsaken things!”

Now that, that invention, Hiccup recalled, was – is, he corrected himself – a complete success and Hiccup straightened with pride, very nearly sniffing. “It was a catapult, that was a highly explosive mixture, and I am a grown MAN, thank you very much!”

“They were mushrooms, it looked like a dinky little slingshot, and may I remind you, apprentice-mine,” which Hiccup really was only in name any more but old roles were hard to leave, “that I am the master here and if I say you have terrible people-ing skills, then you have terrible, horrible, Odin-forsaken people-ing skills!” With an arm, he drew a surprised and stumbling Hiccup into a friendly hug. “But thankfully, you have good old Gobber to help you out, so stop waving your arms around and go-“ Gobber thought for a moment. “Go learn how to people, you little troll!”

And Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, all six feet of him, was shoved into the forge by a meaty hand that disappeared back into the private room as quickly as it had come.

He wobbled for a moment, completely at a loss for what to do when his mentor tossed him to the figurative sharks, before falling into his default response that was, in fact, actually honed after years of dealing with the infuriating Viking who had, Hiccup knew, a heart of gold and, Hiccup knew even better, a tongue that the gods must have put in backwards.

He hunched a little and puffed himself up until he was stretched as wide as his sides would go. “Learn how tah people,” he mimicked, waving a hand at the imaginary apprentice before him. The act fell away like a cloak in a moment, though, and he sighed wearily.

Really. This was getting old and he had at least another twenty years to go.

“Alright, hi-“

Hiccup blinked when his eyes caught sight of blue, not brown, eyes set in a face framed with the lightest blonde hair known to man, a color that belonged to only three people in the entire village.

“Ruffnut. Ruffnut?” He blinked again, the idea of Ruffnut in the forge conjuring up an immediate note of confusion and another, bugled note of ‘uh-oh!’ “What, ah, uh…” Ruffnut had never been in the forge before. Ever. “I mean…” His gaze fell on the spears in her hand. Customer business, obviously.

And here he was, proving Gobber right. Determined to pretend the inept, one-sided spluttering hadn’t just happened, Hiccup regained his bearings as quickly as he could. “Hi. Uh, how can I…help you today?” he asked, pretty proud of how steady his voice was with Ruffnut standing there with a slowly widening grin like _that_.

Dear Odin.

Her grin widened a little more, showing off a few white teeth.

“Spears. How much to sharpen them?”

Hiccup jerked when three spears were suddenly flying his way and two of them fell to the ground with a clatter as he barely managed to wrap his fingers around one. “Er, uh, three pieces of copper a piece,” he rattled off automatically, his mind already flitting through assessments and calculations. “So that’s nine pieces of copper, and, uh…you want repairs on them too? Ruffnut?”

Ruffnut ran a finger around the rim of the cold anvil, not looking at him.

Apparently he wasn’t as fascinating as a hunk of oddly-shaped metal, Hiccup concluded dryly.

“What’s Tuff usually do?” She didn’t bother to turn around, instead inspecting the counter behind the anvil and reaching for Gobber’s tongs.

“Tuffnut? He…full repairs if necessary.” Hiccup examined the spears’ metal heads. The shafts still seemed in fairly good, if worn, condition. “It looks like one of them’s busted up pretty good. There are nicks all down one side of the blade.” That and running a finger down it with growing confidence showed it was as dull as a bed post. What had the twins been doing with these, beating up rocks?

Although, sometimes Snotlout’s head did indeed qualify as a rock, Hiccup snickered a little on the inside. Stubborn, short-sighted, selfish Viking.

(“Hypocrite,” he accused himself, pointing with a disembodied finger.)

Anyway. “It also needs a very good sharpening, like the second one, and the last one is pretty hopeless honestly. The tip looks about ready to come off, so the whole head needs to be replaced-“

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Ruffnut cut him off, wholly uninterested as she poked at some dead coals, dumping ash on the floor. Hiccup’s lips thinned, but at least Ruffnut wasn’t destroying the place, his practical side assured him. He’d take an oddly curious Ruffnut over a conniving one any day. “How much?”

Hiccup obligingly ran a practiced eye over the spears. “For a new head? A new head, it would be, six silver pieces, I’d say? It’s a pretty simple design and-“

She cut him off again, waving an arm of dismissal. The Arm of Dismissal, Hiccup thought sourly. He received it so much it ought to have a Proper Name by now.

“Yeah, sounds great. What’s the sum?” his customer repeated, moving on to observe Gobber’s collection of hands, back turned to him.

“…”

Abruptly, Hiccup’s world snapped into focus so fast it felt like he’d been slapped.

“Nine silver pieces and two coppers,” he answered with professional promptness, daring to glance at her back from the corner of his eyes as he turned to his worktable.

Ruffnut shrugged again, gaze suddenly caught by Gobber’s tongs hand. She ran her fingers over the uneven metal. “Just do what you need to do.”

With a sharp nod, Hiccup efficiently set to work reheating the fire and began removing the heads. He didn’t let his calm, down-to-business manner betray so much as a hint to the thoughts running through his busy mind.

Stupid, he scolded himself as his hands worked silently on the spears almost of their own accord. Stupid! How could he have let his guard down! Never again, he reprimanded himself. No more slipping.

But the smithy, Hiccup felt as Ruffnut wandered freely around the place, was his refuge. His _sanctuary_ , and Gobber was his…protector, of a sort. His…buffer? Gobber helped the village and Hiccup helped Gobber. Ergo, Hiccup helped the village. But only Gobber talked to the villagers and Hiccup only talked to Gobber. It was, Hiccup had long realized, a lonely way to live and maybe Gobber didn’t always listen as closely as he should nor for the love of Thor could he say what he meant, but it was a life where he was never brushed off like some insignificant speck of dust on a shield.

Cough*RUFFNUT*Cough, he tried to broadcast telepathically.

The girl continued to ignore him, apparently determined to touch every single item in the room. Hiccup resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have a lot of reorganizing and cleaning up to do after she left.

And, Hiccup continued, switching his gaze again to the spears and determined to ignore her right back, Gobber didn’t chatter over him as though he wasn’t even there like Tuffnut did. Or pound his dignity into the ground (Snotlout) or stare him down like he was some lame, untrustworthy, useless wart the poor island was forced to put up with (Astrid’s disdainful-at-best face).

(Or treat him like a hopeless hazard.)

((“Daddy!” Seven wailed again, muffled voice laden with fresh tears.))

Hiccup felt fairly assured that he had trained himself to live without the village, despite residing at the head of it, with a pretty good level of success.

Clearly, however, his…relapse…with Ruffnut showed he wasn’t as well off as he had thought.

He banged away at the metal on the anvil with a vengeance.

But where did she get off intruding on _his_ safe place, he asked. That’s what she was, an intruder! A nasty-

Hiccup’s teeth clenched together as Ruffnut tossed something behind him. He refused to acknowledge her, no matter how nasty, chaotic, annoying, rude, and _intrusive_ she was being, poking around like she owned the place. The redhead glared at the cherry red iron, and even though he refused to so much as twitch in her direction, keeping his stance turned at just the right angle to scream ‘UNWELCOME, YOU!’ he still discreetly kept his eye on the invader, the silent outrage building in his mind. She was completely at ease, he could tell by the loose way she held herself, how her shoulders curved in a downright relaxed manner, how easily she reached for-

Hiccup almost threw his hammer out the window in his haste.

“NO! DON’T!”

Pure unadulterated _panic_ , hot and shocking, flew through him as he ran for the door, his breath shortening exponentially as the leather flap fell almost slowly back into place behind her as though to accentuate exactly how she was now _on the other side_. He threw it open again instantly, leaping into the tiny room.

Ruffnut, of course, continued to ignore him, enraptured by the small catapult sitting on his desk in front of his-his diagrams, his drawings, his journals, his _life_ -

Hiccup could almost feel himself slipping into a frenzy as she reached out to touch it. “Ruffnut-!”

“What is this?” She ran a finger down one of the supporting beams and Hiccup rushed forward.

“No! No, don’t touch that!”

He swallowed hard when she paused…then removed her finger and bent down to examine his good-sized Smoke Slinger even closer.

Idiot! Moron! Brainless barge rat! I should have moved it! he yelled at himself wildly. I should have moved it earlier! Aesir, Ruffnut should not be anywhere near this! _She should not be in here!_

He felt…violated at almost the most personal level, seeing someone _not him_ standing in the midst of his den.

(“OUT!” Seven agreed, voice rising like the screaming dive of a Night Fury.)

“Ruffnut! Would you please-“

“You know, it looks like some type of slingshot,” she commented, hands on her hips in a casual, downright _unconcerned_ manner.

Hiccup stuttered, hands twitching to just grab the girl _and get her out_. “Yes, well, no, it’s really a sort of catapult, just a, a prototype! Nothing interesting, it doesn’t even work, really-“

“So it throws rocks,” she concluded, staring at it with a confused sort of expression on her face before it turned to one of disgust. “Rocks? That’s dumb.”

Hiccup huffed irritably through his nose, unable to reign himself in at the offense. “Of course it doesn’t throw around rocks! That would be pointless, now would you just-“

He cursed his tongue as Ruffnut’s interest sparked anew and she lightly hefted the counterweight. “So what’s it throw?”

“No!” Hiccup denied. “No, I am NOT answering that, YOU are LEAVING MY WORKROOM RIGHT NOW-Ruffnut?” His eyes widened. “Ruffnut! NO! RUFFNUT!”

“One way to find out, right?” she asked over his protests, smirking _that aesir-forsaken grin_ and Hiccup screeched, leaping forward as he realized that the weapon was loaded and her finger was resting right on the highly-sensitive, poorly-calibrated lever-!

SWOOSH!

-SSSSSHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...hhh-h`kht......shhh-PLBT..hh....hhh-kt.

The smoke hissed as it spilled, swirling into the air so thickly it was impossible to see so much as one’s nose. A few hard-to-hear, unpleasant-sounding splutters announced the last of the expansive glop exiting its tiny and former package.

“…”

“…”

It, Hiccup dimly noted, his ears ringing with the deafening popping sound of the small explosion, smelled considerably better than it had last time. In fact, he couldn’t smell anything at all although that might have been because the thick, clogging smoke was roiling around him so thickly that he felt he couldn’t breathe at all either. By the time it had settled to about waist height – too heavy still to really match his vision, some unreasonably calm and detached part of him noted – he was still hacking and coughing, gasping in great bouts of air.

Someone else sounded like they were trying to forcibly remove their lungs from their chest cavity too.

Hiccup’s expression turned dark. _Ruffnut._

“Out.”

His voice sounded small and distant to himself and he felt far away as his face flushed with anger and his expression drew together, sharp and angry. Very angry.

“Out!” he ordered again, breathing raggedly. “OUT!”

He thought he was being very clear with the way he stood ramrod straight in the center of the room pointing imperiously at the door with a punishing finger, glaring like an impending frost giant spelling certain doom at her.

But as she slipped out by the leather flap, she was wearing a wild grin that made it clear that she was only leaving the fuming, mistake-prone and destructive inventor…only for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should ALL thank the wonderful Guest who left the comment on the previous chapter saying I left a cliffie. When I looked back, I figured it kind of was slightly suspenseful, so as soon as I was somewhere with an Internet connection, I typed up my vision of Ruffnut and Hiccup's start at chemistry and sent it to yall post-haste. Hope it's not too rough around the edges and lives up to everyone's expectations. :)  
> In other news, the next chapter really IS hard to write well, and school is going to be...intense...this semester, so it may be another month, maybe two, before I manage to get another done.  
> And I really don't think I left a cliffie this time!!  
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Sheisa


	8. Things that are Long Overdue

**The Dragon's Den**

 

The village of Berk all stood in the Great Hall like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. Everyone, from the smallest babe to the oldest warrior, was present, and it was very crowded. Most Vikings were squished up against each other trying to get the best view possible. A lucky few had rights to the best spots in the Hall. Among them were the elder Hofferson couple, Astrid’s parents, who stood tall and proud side by side. Phlegma the Fierce, Berk’s oldest shieldmaiden and toughest resident, stood behind Mrs. Hofferson’s shoulder, hair up in its severe braided buns as usual. She put a hand on her younger sister’s shoulder, murmuring something to Mrs. Hofferson who nodded with a smile. Gobber the Belch, Berk’s wackiest warrior and experienced blacksmith, gave Mr. Hofferson’s shoulder a friendly nudge with his hammer hand.

And Spitelout Jorgenson, of course, the final member of the Council, was at the front as well with his wife and his younger son, Troutrash. The nine-year-old was grinning, gazing around in excitement.

Snotlout grinned himself as he clapped one of his coworkers on the back in greeting, keeping a wary eye out as his father bent down to listen to his mother for a moment before frowning and scanning the crowd.

“Nice to see you here, Jorgenson!” the man ginned back. The rest of the loggers quickly swarmed around him, giving him hefty backslaps and welcomes of their own. They all stood at least half a foot taller than him, he estimated. Sometimes it paid to be five-foot-three.

“What, you think I’d miss it?” he scoffed.

One of the other loggers gave a little choke of laughter. “Oh, we knew you’d be here. Word’s gotten around the main course is going to be mutton, the desert’s going to be yak butter parfait, there isn’t going to be a jug of water on the whole island – and it’s all going to be for a lovely ladybird you’ve been singing about for years. What do you think boys, are they going to start tweeting a different tune tonight?”

Snotlout willed his face to not turn red as whistles rang out. He was so done with embarrassment, he had totally vanquished embarrassment, with his-! He huffed as the group sniggered.

“Naw,” Groark continued, taking pity on him. “We knew you’d come. We’re just surprised you’re over here with us rather than taking a front seat with your family.”

“Yup.”

“S’right.”

“You know I’d be up there if I had the chance!” the other loggers agreed.

“Oh pfft,” Snotlout brushed off, flicking his hand out in a smooth wave as he tried to at least look cool.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit, was all that could go through his head even as he desperately searched for some excuse that wasn’t the ugly horrible Truth. “I’d rather be here,” was all he could come up with, giving away one tiny puzzle piece of the Ugly, Horrible Truth. Then his lips sealed themselves shut.

Someone smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you wave that off, young man.” Snotlout stared up, wide-eyed, into the sharp gaze of one of the more senior loggers, Mugroot Hoarkson. “Few people are blessed with a family like you.” Snotlout leaned back as the senior’s gristly beard scratched his face. “You gonna appreciate that blessing, young’un?”

“Eh…” Snotlout tried not to look scared. He really did.

The loggers parted, looking sincerely happy for his stupid fortune and giving his stupid dad a clear visual of his errant son. He didn’t even have a chance to run; it took precisely two seconds for the eyes of the head of the Jorgenson family to lock onto their target.

‘Get over here now,’ Spitelout’s gaze growled.

Snotlout’s mouth twisted and he nodded, starting another round of back clapping but this time in not-quite-genuine thanks rather than greeting.

“Have fun, lad!”

“Enjoy that front row seat, son!”

“And don’t forget to tell us all about _her_ ,” the second logger emphasized with a teasing grin.

Snotlout gave him an extra hard backslap that made him fall right on the floor, to the delight of the other loggers.

Jolly cries of “Felled!” and “TIMBERRR!” echoed behind him as he pushed his way towards his father. It felt like he was pushing through mud. He so did not want to be here.

Troutrash gave him that big grin. “Snotlout’s here!” he announced.

Gods, it was so wrong that it was so much easier to smile at the Hoffersons than at his own parents, giving them a nod in congratulations. They smiled back looking pleased. He felt a little of the sincerity in his expression slip away as he finally faced his family, taking his spot at his father’s right side. Troutrash bounced in front of him.

“Son, stop bouncing around,” Spitelout said with a glance at his younger son. His eyes then focused on Snotlout’s and Snotlout had to consciously keep the corner of his mouth from curling down. He pursed his lips and smiled instead.

“You’re almost late.”

Snotlout shrugged. “Just chatting with the boys, Dad.”

His smile stayed small as his father chuckled with good humor. “Man of the people, eh? That’s wonderful son. Good to see you’ve got the right attitude. ”

Snotlout just jerked his head in a noncommittal gesture, eyes front and center, as his dad jabbered on. He idly took note of the barrels upon barrels of mead lining the sides of the hall and the steam coming out of the kitchen. And something smelled delicious, like yak butter parfait, dare he guess. Which he did. If the rumors were true

“-hate your hours. You work so late-“

“Someone has to do it, Dad,” Snotlout answered blandly, not really engaged.

“I did not name you ‘Someone,’ Snotlout, and the future lea-“

The rumbling that rolled through the hall abruptly died down as the Elder appeared with Hiccup tailing her. The hunched old woman was silent, as usual, the only sound her staff tapping against the hard floor. An unusually large assortment of bones and gourds holding gods-knew-what on the end swung on the head of the staff, which rose above everyone’s heads. Her grey, almost white braids hung all the way down to her hips, knotted in their classic style but decorated with the symbols of the gods. The light from the fire glinted off countless metal clasps, many with the All-Seeing Eye of Odin, tastefully braided into her hair.

Snotlout thought that for once, she really looked like the wise woman carrying an ancient power instead of somebody’s too-old great-granny.

The crowd parted respectfully and from the corner of his eye as he lowered his head, Snotlout even saw his father jerk his head sharply down and up. The Elder stopped in front of the pathway to the platform, letting her staff fall back to the ground in front of her. Ridiculously tall and skinny, and looking rather like a staff himself, Hiccup continued to walk past her until he stood right in front of the platform, the dark charcoal lines that marked him as the Elder’s Voice standing out on his pale cheeks clear for all to see.

“Berk!” the Chief’s son called to the silent crowd.

Then he paused, looking to the Elder and Snotlout wondered if he had forgotten his lines or something.

The Elder stared back at the Chief’s son calmly, giving nothing away. The Hall remained silent and Snotlout shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable and inexplicably awkward.

Hiccup’s face twitched slightly in what might have been loosely translated as a defiant ‘fine!’ and turned back to the crowd.

“Berk, who should I speak to?” the Chief’s son began the customary speech. “Who leads you? When quarrels break out among you, who do you turn to for justice? When food or water runs short, who do you turn to for solutions? When tribes come to visit, who do you send out to greet them either with fair words or fists? When you attend the Gathering, who speaks for you? In war, who do you follow? Berk, I ask you, who do you trust?”

The enormous central fire only had time to give one crackle.

Then Snotlout jumped as a voice bellowed in his ear.

“SNOTLOUT JORGENSON!”

Snotlout stiffened.

The room was dead silent, save for a quiet gasp from Phlegma behind him.

Hiccup looked around at the assembly and Snotlout felt horribly jealous of how he didn’t even bat an eye. He knew that his own heart was beating out an irregular rhythm and he could feel himself trembling as his dad thrust him up on a stage he didn’t want to be on.

“All in support of calling Snotlout Jorgenson,” Hiccup called, as was tradition.

Snotlout’s mouth twisted as hands rose. What were these people thinking?!

Power, he realized with rising anger, as most of them were either part of or related to the Jorgenson clan. Each one had been spoonfed the Jorgenson motto from birth – Power is strength and strength rules all. _And_ the number of people who believed it was big enough that Snotlout, as was tradition, stepped forward at Spitelout’s shove and headed for the platform, avoiding eye contact with every single person in the room – especially that of a simmering blonde, who looked more like a tiger ready to leap and sink her claws in than a bird of paradise.

Gods, he couldn’t even meet his cousin’s judging gaze as he passed. Him, Snotlout the Mighty, not even able to look at Hiccup the Weed. Now that was shameful.

He heaved himself up onto the platform with his arms, spotting the stairway belatedly.

Standing above the crowd, he could see his immediate family raising their hands in approval, little Troutrash shoving both up into the air with enthusiasm. Gunvarr the Baker, his uncle, and his wife and their children had their hands raised. Gunvarr’s oldest child already had a family of his own, a huge one with five small children and one on the way, and all of them were raising their hands. The family in charge of the apple orchards, they were related on his mother’s side by marriage. One of the families in charge of fishing- the Grakors? – they were from some second cousins.

The Jorgenson clan was really scraping from the bottom of the barrel, Snotlout noticed. Apparently having even the slightest relation to the chief was a tantalizing thought.

Then another group caught his eye – the loggers. They were split, with most of them raising their hands in support. Groak caught his eye and winked at him, looking proud. For some reason, that made him much happier than looking at his dad’s raised hand and approving gaze.

But a couple, Mugroot included, kept their hands down.

Snotlout’s gaze fell down on his cousin. As the voice of the Elder, Hiccup could not vote – a solid political move that hid his opinions and made him zero enemies, Snotlout analyzed. A smart move, because supporting Astrid meant severing familial ties with the Jorgensons and supporting Snotlout meant abandoning Stoick’s basically adopted daughter. Lose-lose.

It hit Snotlout like a lightning bolt for a moment that Hiccup was really smart. Being an outcast totally sucked but he’d learned that outcast-ship made your wit sharper than a Nightmare’s fang. Suddenly, he kind of really wanted to know Hiccup’s opinion.

Of course, when he looked at his cousin, all Hiccup did was ask, “How do you respond?” with the damned best poker face he’d ever seen.

Then he looked behind Hiccup and his breath caught. The Elder actually looked like she was considering him from behind Hiccup. Him, Snotlout Jorgenson, the Viking who’d basically been a total muttonhead with his brain buried in his butt for eighteen years of his life.

And Snotlout felt like his whole fate was tipping. One the one hand, here was a real chance to become Chief, the most respected and powerful man of the island. He’d wanted that, for eighteen years. That was a dream, no, a _promise_ his parents had lodged firmly in his skull, and having the chance shoved into his face like this was tempting.

He could have everything.

But looking at his father’s face made a second dream rage in him. It was the dream no one had told him to wish for but the one he most desperately wanted. And that expectance, that look of complete and utter control and power that his father wore like a grand, kingly cape, fuelled it the way oil fuelled a fire and made him burn for it like he never had before.

“No. I ca-I won’t answer, that call,” he announced, and did his best to sound brave and confident even as his father’s face turned into one of dumbstruck shock and his mother’s became one of cunning, like a clever gamemaster trying to figure out an opponent. “Look, I’m awesome. I’m a Jorgenson. I’m the strongest Viking in the village, the best dragon slayer in the archipelago, the most handsome man here. But there’s a better choice here, and we all know it.”

Snotlout swallowed, his arrogant front faltering. Now or never. Spitelout’s face had turned from shocked-out-of-his-wits to impending doom and it foretold a miserable, I-wish-I-was-dead future – for the next five months, one week, and two days. But thinking of the alternative, Snotlout knew that his father could make his life as horrible as Hel and he still wouldn’t ever regret this.

“But Astrid’s better,” he said for all of Berk to hear. He looked around. It felt like they weren’t listening to him.

“Astrid Hofferson!” he called again, this time using his best roar and raising a fist. A few in the front raised their fists with him. “Astrid Hofferson!” he roared one more time. “I call Astrid Hofferson forward!”

It was almost overwhelmingly gratifying to hear the Hall roar in response, to hear such widespread approval and see everyone throwing hands, helmets, even furniture into the air.

“All in support of calling Astrid Hofferson?”

Snotlout could barely hear Hiccup’s question even as he walked right past him. The Hall continued to roar in favor, but they dimmed out too as Snotlout tried to gauge the warmth of the reception he was about to receive from his family.

His dad’s face was unreadable.

He still didn’t like the look his mom was pinning him with, like a bird of prey pinning a mouse.

They wouldn’t dare do anything in public though. The Elder was right there. The Hoffersons were right there. Their soon-to-be-new-chief was _right there_ , blue eyes fixed on him and under force of habit, without even meaning too, Snotlout automatically swung a little more swagger into his step, sending a somewhat-genuine, somewhat-flirtatious smile her way, just barely managing to stop a wink. He hoped the jumbled message was more genuine than flirtatious.

His parents wouldn’t do anything now but still, instead of standing slightly in front of his father as he had before, he swerved and stood right next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

Because now his secret was out and he just couldn’t muster up the trust to turn his back to Spitelout anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

**A True Chief**

 

Each step felt terribly light and easy. She felt dulled, like the stone wasn’t as cold as it should be, like the fire wasn’t as hot as it should be, like the weight of the event, of her ascendance to the Chiefdom, wasn’t as heavy or momentous as it should have felt.

It felt like she was missing something.

Stepping up where Snotlout had stood moments before was like cutting butter with a freshly-forged sword – so much easier than it should have been. She turned to face the Voice of the Elder, feeling awkward and unbalanced on the high platform rather than great or grand.

Astrid forced herself to breath evenly. Why did this feel so wrongly underwhelming?

“Astrid Hofferson,” Hiccup started. She kept herself rigid under his uncomfortable gaze. It was sharp, and a beautiful green that reflected the firelight like an entrancing gem…Shit! It was just like the funeral all over again!

“How do you respond?”

Closing her eyes, she took a moment to refocus. It was hard to swallow, but the words came out just like always. “I promise to make sure everyone is safe, everyone is strong, and everyone is provided for. I will protect this village from the harsh winters that threaten to starve us. I will lead against any tribes who dare to attack us! I will fight against the beasts trying to destroy us!”

She meant those words, and tried to summon the kind of tingly, epic mood of standing out on the cold dock, swearing them to Chief Stoick the Vast. She put as much feeling as she could in those sealing vows.

“On my honor, I will defend our island from any who would harm it! Berk will never fall before I do. This I swear before the Gods, the Elder, the Council, and all assembled here this day. I, Astrid Hofferson, step up as Chief of Berk!”

But the words still rang hollow to her even as the Hall rang with cheers of approval, lost to memory far earlier than they should have been. Had she really said them, really sworn her life to the chiefdom? It didn’t feel like it.

Frustration bubbled inside her as she tried to figure out what was missing. Her gaze swept over the warm Hall, the cheering crowd, the attentive Council, her proud parents. The room was warm and alive, the atmosphere perfect.

She smiled at everyone even as she frowned inside.

“Elder, do you accept these vows?”

The Elder frowned thoughtfully.

Then she stared at the floor.

She…Astrid’s smile dropped as seconds stretched into a whole minute. She was hesitating!

Two minutes.

Then three.

And finally, Astrid felt something as the Elder actually _hesitated to accept her_ , something that made her fists clench.

It was inadequacy.

A niggling little voice whispered that maybe she really wasn’t right for the job – how could a Chief feel so detached during their ceremony? Why would the Elder have second thoughts like this?!

What was wrong with her!

So caught up in the maelstrom of whats, Astrid just about leapt out of her skin when the crowd cheered.

She glanced back up. The Elder must have accepted her (she missed it, how did she miss it?! what sort of chief _did that?!_ ) because she was shuffling forward, past her Voice. Her ungainly staff suddenly struck the ground the wrong way and Hiccup jumped, mouth opening in a soundless ‘Ow’ when the butt of the staff landed squarely on his foot. Astrid may have imagined the glare the Elder shot his way.

…She probably did.

She didn’t care one whit. She and the Hall waited with bated breath until the Elder stood right before Astrid and then gestured to the wood in front of her.

Still feeling too light, too numb, too disconnected, Astrid stepped down and kneeled, respectfully lowering her gaze as the Elder rubbed her charcoal fingers together and drew the mark of the Chief on her forehead.

When she rose, Hiccup the Voice of the Elder was standing by the table at the side. The Chief’s possessions were arranged on it.

Stoick had told her all about his ceremony – the immense pride he’d felt when his father had wrapped the belt around his waist.

Hiccup – the Voice of the Elder – held up that very same belt now. It looked more like a gigantic, unwieldy scrap than the belt that had encircled Stoick’s waist in his slender hands.

And instead of feeling pride, Astrid stiffened when he moved forward to wrap it around her hips, hyperconscious of how close he was. He was taller than her, his hair dangling right in front of her nose as he looked down. Even bound, she felt uncomfortably exposed and held herself perfectly still, her knee itching to knock him in the groin. And his hands were right there (right there! A hair’s breadth away!) from her hips as he looped the belt through the ornate buckle.

Then she felt mortification.

It was way to big.

Hiccup didn’t so much as brush her as he tilted the belt, resting one side high on her hip and letting the other swing downwards, like a sash. The fish on the buckle looked like it was taking a nosedive.

“We trust you to make Berk prosper under your rule,” he dictated.

He was painfully proper as he picked up the next item. It was ancient. And it was so heavy he had to use his arms to carry it to her, gait wobbly.

It was the axe of Stoick’s great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Skorchbeard the Brawny. One of the first chiefs of Berk. Stoick had called it inspiring.

She took the axe from him with one hand. It was unusually heavy, the handle thick and the head clunky. Very…primitive. Her mind’s eye instantly conjured up the graceful curve of her own blade, the worn but sturdy handle, and the perfect balance. The ancient axe’s head felt ready to attack the floor on its own.

It was…disappointing.

“We trust you to defend us with everything you have, to fight with us and for us with your fists and your words.”

The final item was even harder for Hiccup to carry – he had to gather it up in his arms and all she could see of his head was a tuft of hair poking out above the fur.

Stoick’s cloak had been made of bear fur. The pelt of a great, enormous brown bear, one of the last beasts on the island. It had been a salute to his fantastic strength and courage, and his commitment to his village. There were no more bears now.

The village had decided to make her cloak of wolf pelts, several all sewn together with silvery grays and whites overlapping and complimenting each other. And at last, Astrid felt something right. Sleek, elegant, but tough and ferocious. Suddenly this was _her_ ceremony.

She held her breath as Hiccup hung the cloak off her shoulders, pinning them to her shirt with two enormous buckles showing the Hofferson crest.

“We trust you with the responsibility of the village.”

The hall roared.

“And,” Hiccup continued, shouting to be heard over the suddenly hushed crowd, “we trust you to watch over us.”

Astrid’s heart skipped a beat even as her expression remained impassive. Surprised murmurings from the older Vikings echoed around the Hall as Hiccup picked up what was clearly a key – a very specific, a very familiar key that she clearly remembered as Stoick’s key – and handed it to her.

Astrid accepted the cold key to the Haddock house, the house on the hill from which the Chie saw all, wordlessly.

Then the Voice of the Elder turned her around to face the entire assembly, belt slung over her skirt, cloak cascading down her back, ax in one hand and a key clutched tightly in the other.

“Berk, long live your Chief!”

 

* * *

 

 

**Looms: Not for Sale**

 

While the rest of the village stayed warm and cheery in the Great Hall, getting down to the real business of out-drinking and yelling at each other in high spirits, Astrid followed the Elder out into the dark night. Thick clouds prevented all but the odd star from shining and after the bright fire and invigorating warmth of the Great Hall, the outdoors felt like a cold leech. Even with her wonderful new furred cape at her back, it still felt like the warmth was being sucked out of her, dissipating to nothing in the endless cold air.

The only light was from the small torch the Elder held as she led the new chief down – or up, Astrid noticed – a path that seemed to always turn right. The path was solid rock and with a jolt Astrid realized it wrapped all the way around Raven’s Point, the peak the Great Hall was hollowed from. It was the same stone path she had run up and down on as a child, playing Seige. The ‘Vikings’ were confined to the path, their ‘fortress’, while the ‘dragons’ were free to roam. It was a game that strongly favored the dragons from a military viewpoint, but she remembered she had always insisted on being a Viking.

Still, she had never run all the way up the path, never even considered it. She didn’t think any of them had. Now, as the village lights came into view yet again, and the Elder steadily headed up the path still, not even pausing as the smooth stone wore away to weathered rocks and grass and a small trail, Astrid saw that it wound around the Hall too many times to count.

And it led to the very tip of the mountain where the Elder’s…hut sat. Perched, Astrid corrected. It was not what she had expected at all. The Elder commanded respect and was a highly valued member of the tribe but her home was smaller and even shoddier than the hovels where the less-than-privileged villagers lived. It looked to be haphazardly constructed with wood sticks propping it up in a completely random fashion. She swallowed a lump in her throat when she saw that half of the house was literally hanging off the peak.

And Astrid felt less than comfortable standing on the wooden platform in front of it. Great Odin, she could see the lights from the torch playing on the rocks under the boards.

The wind howled in sudden gusts, scraping her face and sending her cape fluttering behind her and Astrid felt even more nervous, feeling like she could be sent tumbling off and down to the stone entrance of the Great Hall at any moment.

But miraculously, even though she could feel the nailed boards vibrating unnervingly beneath her steps, the platform held. The Elder finally found the key to her house after fumbling around in the bird’s nest that was the top of her staff, jamming it into the door and shuffling in. Astrid followed close behind.

And immediately banged her head.

“What the-“

It was even smaller on the inside than on the outside, Astrid swore. Gourds, roots, bones, and…other things – Astrid gave the strange-looking assortments an equally strange look – hung from the ceiling in dense clumps, eliminating any sort of head room. They were so low the Elder’s helmet was practically brushing them.

A huge loom stood by one wall of the hut and the woolen fibers on the unfinished blanket shone a deep red and various shades of black and green in the dim lighting. She squinted at the piles, literally piles, of blankets that littered the floor, trying to estimate how many there were.

Of course with her attention focused on the impressive amount of blankets, she banged her head again.

“Ouch!” she hissed.

A noncommittal hum made her turn back to face the Elder as she used the torch to light the small fireplace. Astrid obeyed the ‘sit’ gesture the Elder waved at her, keeping her back to the door, as the Elder easily reached up and began harvesting from her odd collection of ceiling ornaments. Most of the ones she plucked were bones. A couple were webbed goose feet. A number were dragon horns.

Finally, the old woman settled into a cross-legged position with her back to the far wall and proceeded to ignore the new Chief, murmuring as she began mixing the ingredients together, dropping the bones in one by one.

The young Chief settled down on her knees. The atmosphere in the hut had become archaic, and Astrid’s anticipation rose as her skin crawled. Each breath was a conscious effort as she became paid attention to each of the slightest smells, the smallest changes in color from the small fire in front of her. The air itself felt heavy, and the flickering light cast by the fire looked unusually vibrant. It was unearthly – and momentous, like her ceremony had been. (At the end.)

But here, as the Elder continued to murmur in a tone so low she couldn’t catch the words, she could finally feel it.

The Elder was still unphased as she casually tossed the bowl up and upended its contents, letting the various bones and things tumble out in front of them. Astrid jerked at the sharp motion, the weight of the moment ebbing as the Elder stood up and began to observe the bones, tilting her head this way and that.

Finally, with a voice Astrid had never heard before that held a low and profound tone that crackled with age, or maybe that was misuse, the Elder began to speak.

“Something big is going to happen during your time,” she began at last, eyes narrowed and head tilted as though she were reading something from the side. ”Something very, very big.”

Astrid reviewed every single possible scenario in her head, responses lining up in her mind like soldiers in a battle. “What? A devastating winter? A food shortage? We haven’t had a firestorm as fierce as Frenir in two decades-“

“You are thinking too small,” the Elder interrupted, soft voice sounding ancient and slow next to Astrid’s energetic planning.

The new chief sucked on her lower lip in thought. “A war? We haven’t fought with the other tribes in a century. If the Outcasts cause trouble like last time, we’ll have to-“

“No,” the Elder cut in again, voice sharper this time.

“Well what is it?” Astrid demanded. “Tell me so that I can plan for it! Tell me so I can do something about it, at least prepare for it!”

The Elder hunched over, pointing at a particular bone in the scattered pile. She locked gazes with the young Chief, misty hazel eyes holding sharp blue ones. “You cannot prepare for this. This is outside of your control.”

Astrid’s hands clenched. “If I know what it is, I can make sure we’ll survive through it.”

“But we don’t know what it is. This is not a change in the way the wind blows or the migration patterns of the fish. This is a very intricate Event, the sum of a vast number of consequences of the many choices made by a great number of people. Including yourself.”

“So I have some control over it.”

The Elder evaluated her thoughtfully for a second. “Limited. Do not overestimate your influence,” she cautioned. “You want to keep Berk safe. You want to end the war. In your time, both of these goals may be realized. But whether or not you succeed…” The Elder trailed off, giving her that same critical look she’d seen during the Hesitation. “You will fail if you make the wrong choices.”

Astrid sat up on her heels, back straight. “And if I make the right ones?”

“You _may_ succeed.”

“What?! May!” Astrid scowled. “Now wait a minute, if I-“

“The sum of a vast number of consequences from a vast number of choices made by a great number of people,” the Elder reminded her.

“Fine. But then I can-“

“NO.” The butt of the Elder’s staff slammed into the ground – hard enough that Astrid jumped back to attention. The Elder was shooting her a hard look. “‘I’ is a very small word, Astrid Hofferson. You are only one person and you only have two hands. And, you may be Chief, but Berk is a very small place. There is a whole world out there that doesn’t follow your rules, much less your orders. And finally, quite frankly, you are not the centerpiece of this Event. Like I said, you have the power to turn this Event into a complete disaster, just like anyone else. One missing sailor can doom an entire ship, one errant shepherd can cost the whole flock. One chief can wipe Berk off the face of the island with her actions! But you are not the one person who can turn this Event into a success all by yourself.

“You must _remember_ that,” the Elder emphasized, standing up and banging her staff again, “and _act_ like you remember it, or else you will become your biggest antagonist.”

Astrid stared, the cold seeping back in as she slowly rose. Goosebumps rose on her arms despite the almost uncomfortable heat from the fire.

The Elder nodded respectfully to her.

“Have a nice night, lass.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem, such as this. Sorry it took so long everyone! Again, school was...well, I designed last year to be hard so this upcoming year would be easy :3 And it's summer! So I'll try to get back to the monthly updates. More frequently if I can manage.  
> Hopefully this chapter didn't disappoint!
> 
> And Guest: you're half right. You, my friend, are sharp ;) Or I give too many clues.
> 
> ~Sheisa


	9. Some Things Should Be Said (And Some Shouldn't)

**The Adventures of Runi and Stoick (Pt. I)**

 

Having Mjolnir was cool, and on the inside, Stoick was squealing like a little girl on Snoggletog morning, but he would have given anything for a half-decent crew right now.

With a grunt, he lassoed the other side of the yard and then started tying his end down. He felt the yard shudder ominously as a large weight landed on it.

The Night Fury stuck its head under the yard so it could look at him upside down. “You want the sail down?” he called in that surprisingly smooth voice that grated on Stoick’s nerves. If a dragon was going to talk, Stoick felt it should sound like one of those growling beasts, not a harmless boot peddler.

“Aye!” he called back. “Untie the ropes keeping it furled!”

Something snapped. “Uh…did you say untie?” the beast called back, sounding nervous.

Stoick scowled as a couple cleanly sliced ropes fell to the deck. “Never mind,” he grit out.

The deck vibrated as the dragon landed with another thud. “…Sorry,” it offered.

Stoick’s grip on his rope tightened. He swore mentally at the idiot who didn’t set up a rigging for him to reach the yard (even though logically, a dead man had no need for it). And the shipwright who hadn’t given him many connections to work with.

“Ah, d-do you, uh, need, help?” the dragon asked.

Stoick felt his eye twitch. He ended up thrusting the end of the newly and poorly-made rigging under the dragon’s muzzle so that the beast had to go cross-eyed to look at it. Stoick was feeling very cross himself honestly. “Hold this down.”

The Night Fury grabbed it awkwardly in its mouth, well away from Stoick’s hand.

“Don’t let it go slack,” Stoick ordered.

“Aiy ‘ont,” the beast muttered around the ropes.

Stoick shot him a suspicious look before stepping on the railing and then onto the rigging, which sagged under his weight. A lot.

The dragon grunted with surprise as he slid along the deck before it dug its claws in. The sound of splintering wood made Stoick even more irked as he kept climbing, painfully slow. He was barely getting off the ground. It felt like he was caught in a trap. “It’s sagging!” he called hotly.

“’Oure ‘efy!” came the reply.

Stoick yelled when the rig gave a sharp jerk and he almost fell through one of the large holes in the grid. “Pull. Harder!”

Growling with effort, the dragon started walking towards the stern. The ropes slowly straightened. And Stoick finally, painfully reached the top.

BOOM!

Something cracked and the ship gave a shudder. Something else cracked when Stoick fell to the deck like a sack of stones.

“We hit a rock!” Rúni called, ever unhelpful.

Stoick’s face was purple. He took a deep breath.

“DAMN IT ALL TO HEL!” he raged. “HALFBEAST, LIMPETBREATHED, SOGGY BOOGER-BRAINED, BOOTLESS SLUGSNORTING SHAGGY MUNGE BUCKETS!”

The Night Fury blinked.

“I NEED A CREW!” Stoick roared.

“Uh…uh…”

“A COMPETENT CREW THAT DOESN’T DESTROY MY SHIP!” he clarified, throwing a hand out to encompass the whole ship. The oh-so-helpful Night Fury had left damage with every step. The boards were torn up in several places, cut ropes littered the deck, the yard was lopsided now, and the top of the mast was bent. Chips littered the railing from where it had landed. Barrels were scattered haphazardly all over the place. Stoick didn’t even want to think about what the bottom of his ship looked like with all the rocks they had rammed into.

The corner of the Night Fury’s mouth curled into a snarl and suddenly the beast looked less awkward and more irritated. “Oh, I’m so sorry I wasn’t born with hands and those glorious things called opposable thumbs,” he shot back with more sarcasm than Stoick had ever heard in his life. “And shame on me for never learning squat diddly about ships, I mean, they’re just-“ he unfurled his wings and gave a powerful downstroke on each word, “SO…practical!”

Stoick did not like that tone. It was disrespectful, it was whiny, and it avoided the very important matter at hand. He glowered. “It’s simple, dragon. DON’T. Ruin. My ship!”

“I’m not _trying_ to! I’m trying to be helpful-“ the dragon babbled.

“Well you’re not! Look at what you’ve done!” Stoick shoved an angry finger at nowhere in particular. There was enough damage it didn’t matter. “Everywhere I turn, you’ve wrecked something!”

The beast glared and Stoick suddenly found himself going eye-to-eye with the slitted, toxic gaze of a demon. It took all the Viking chief’s will not to blink or let his gaze flick away like a chicken but if that beast thought Stoick would be intimidated, it would be in for a nasty, and Stoick did mean _nasty_ , surprise.

“Well _what do you want me to do?”_ the dragon snarled in a voice that suddenly gave the Viking goosebumps all up and down his arms. A hiss was rising in the back of its throat, its undertone giving the peddler’s voice a chilling quality, like a screaming wind before a massive lightning storm. It wasn’t at all the way he had imagined a dragon sounding – it was much more frightening and Stoick felt his muscles freeze. “Fix it all with a twitch of my tail? Rewind time so it never happened? Magically teleport us there!”

“Just _STOP_!” he roared back, and took a small bit of pleasure at seeing the devil spook, all eight of its ear-sensor-antenna things flaring and its posture becoming submissive.

It didn’t last. The beast stomped a paw against the deck, and the timbers shivered beneath Stoick’s feet. Its wings flared out. “Would you just listen, I’m HELPING-!”

“I DON’T NEED YOUR GODSDAMNED HELP, DEVIL!” Stoick bellowed through the heavens, patience finally and officially gone. “HEL TAKE IT, I’D BE BETTER OFF WITHOUT IT, _MURDERER!_ ”

A powerful gust of air blasted him in the face. When Stoick opened his eyes again, the beast was already in the sky, wings pumping furiously as he became nothing but a speck on the vast horizon.

* * *

**Moving Furniture, Moving Words**

Hiccup cringed at the sight of his work room in the forge. It was, to put it mildly, cramped. Gobber would have a field day yelling about the very probable event that he would trip over something and slice his fool neck if his mentor ever saw it, he was sure. Maybe he really hadn’t given this moving thing as much thought as he should have.

There were some things he was absolutely keeping, no question about it – the dishware that was stacked high on his desk, the massive cooking pot sitting in the middle of the floor (although why he would ever make that much stew he didn’t know), his enormous reserve of soap which he had stuffed inside the pot, his furs and leathers piled on his chair, and a couple of very nicely decorated shields that had been in the Haddock clan since Berk had been nothing but a tiny, five-person fishing post. They were spread higglty pigglty between his various prototypes. A sewing kit sat on his desk with his latest diagrams. So did a helmet with a tilted horn. It was pretty much a piece of junk, but for some reason Hiccup couldn’t quite muster up the resolve to toss it. It was small enough he could keep it, he figured. Vikingly décor at least.

He eyed a couple of heavy broadswords in the corner. Now those he would gladly be rid of, but apparently, they had belonged to some of the greatest heroes in Viking history – his ancestors, Hamish the Heroic, Grimbeard the Ghastly. As meaningless and useless as they were to him (twenty years old, and he still couldn’t hold one with both hands, let alone wield it – how sad), he didn’t need any ancestors coming back from the dead, thanks very much.

His fingers played with one of the straps on his apron, mind lost in thought. He would have to make a lot of trips to move everything to his humble abode, and he didn’t particularly want all of Berk to see the late chief’s son struggling to cart the family heirlooms to his exclusively private home in the forest. He’d move it all tonight after work, when it was dark and nobody was around-

“’Iccup!”

Hiccup jerked, his foot caught on something on the floor, his knee painfully banged against a table leg, and he toppled into the sea of possessions with all the grace of a duck.

Gobber ran an exasperated hand down his face before reaching down and setting the boy back on his feet by the back of his fancy-schmancy vest-apron thingy. He swore, Hiccup came up with weirder and weirder things the older he got. Useful, but weird.

“We’ve got a few swords that need adjusting, if you can find the time in yer busy schedule of tripping and daydreamin’.”

Hiccup folded his arms petulantly. “You startled me! And I was not daydreaming. I was planning.”

“Yeah? You want to let me in on those busy plans of yours then?” the blacksmith asked as he went back to the axe he was fixing.

“Not really.”

“Then why don’t you explain to me about this whole moving thing you’re doing?” Gobber inspected the head of the weapon, but Hiccup could tell his old mentor was keeping a sharp ear open. “I still can’t seem to wrap my head around it.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple, really,” Hiccup answered, grabbing one of the swords – one of the Jorgenson’s swords, by chance. He recognized the crest on the hilt instantly. “I am moving, in which I pack up, leave one place, and start living in another.”

“Eh henh,” Gobber intoned. “What I meant was, I can’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that you’re leaving your family’s home.”

Hiccup shot a flat look his way. “Speaking of leaving things, I’d like to leave this topic alone, please.”

“Oh, yeh’re not getting away that easily, lad.” Gobber pointed the axe at him. “Yeh’ve been huffy and dark all day, and poor old Gobber doesn’t need yeh taking out your frustrations on him anymore.”

“And I know how ‘poor old Gobber’ can avoid that – by avoiding the topic altogether,” Hiccup answered, tone somewhat more acerbic than usual. And if the lad thought Gobber couldn’t tell the difference, then he had cotton between those ears. Hiccup had been in an unrelentingly bad mood since the Ceremony and the blacksmith was going to put a stop to it here and now.

It was time to be direct.

“Look, I’ve been bantering with you and putting up with your bad sass all day and I am done with it,” he stated bluntly. “You can either tell me what’s made you as bitter as old Mildew after he’s lost a whole field of cabbage or you can keep your mouth shut.”

He’d never heard such a, well, a _bitter_ laugh from the lad before. Hiccup tended to brood, and sulk, and by Thor’s hammer, the whining! But bitter grumbling had never been his style.

“Bitter as Mildew?” he quoted.

Gobber raised an eyebrow. “Aye. Something about that amuses you?”

Hiccup snorted his yeah-but-I’m-the-only-one-who-could-get-it snort.

And he was, because there was nothing funny about sounding like Mildew in Gobber’s mind. Mildew was like the unwanted eel slime that sticks to the bottom of your boot and makes you slip and fall on your bum. Gobber may have been as eccentric and shunned as the old coot, at least when he was younger, but he’d worked hard to be cheerful, charming, useful, an all-out pleasure to be around – everything Mildew was not.

A niggling little suspicion piped up that made his eyebrows draw together. Hiccup’s humor always did lean towards irony…

“So!” he began – cheerfully, of course. He ran a few fingers over the axe in his tongs, checking for cracks and chips. “This new homestead you’ve got for yerself. Where’s it at?”

Hiccup shot him a glance. “I built it in the forest.”

“That’s pretty far out of town,” Gobber observed.

The younger man shrugged and leaned back over the sword, squinting at the color of the blade. “No one disturbs me.” The embers lit up a scowl. “And I disturb no one.”

And out came that self-deprecating, scornful tone that the boy’d been sporting all day. Of course, he could have been referring to his little experiments and other mishaps, but Gobber had a gut feeling he was really referring to himself. He resisted the urge to bash something.

“Thinking of having any pets?” he asked instead. “Perhaps of the white and woolly kind?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I’d keep a sheep, but there isn’t much pasture for them in the forest. What would you suggest?”

Gobber put the axe down. “I suggest you rethink your career path.”

There it was. Hiccup scowled and practically threw the tool he was using back onto the bench. “Yeah? It’s not like I have any alternatives!”

Kids. They just didn’t get it. Actually, most adults didn’t get it either. “Hiccup, you can be anything you want to be,” Gobber asserted.

“Oh really?” Hiccup’s hands started dancing about with his words, anger rolling off his animated, jerky gestures like smoke from a fire. “I can’t be a warrior like the others, I can’t be a Chief like, like the rest of my family, I can’t be a fisher or a farmer-!”

“Well what about a blacksmith, eh!” Gobber interrupted, bringing his apprentice – his former apprentice – back to earth with a good hard prod in the chest with his tong hand.

Odin, smart as the boy was, he’d never even considered it! He looked as confused as though a boot had spontaneously flown out of nowhere and clocked him on the side of the head!

… _Maybe he hadn’t considered it_ , rose unbidden in Gobber’s mind. It was a voice he’d learned to squish out of existence with extreme prejudice long ago but it still reared its ugly head in moments like these.

 _Maybe he didn’t consider it because of you_ , it whispered with the voice of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty. Which was ridiculous, he told himself, but the man couldn’t help himself from glaring a little harder at the twig, watching every nervous movement, every pained expression. He took note of every telling, uneasy glance.

“A, a blacksmith?” the boy stuttered, staring at him with wide eyes. “What? _What?_ But, but you-you’re the blacksmith!”

That’s right, Gobber thought. Only years of practice kept him from scowling at the crime.

_I’m the blacksmith._

“And what’s wrong with being like me, huh?” Odin, he couldn’t stop the thoughts. Every second of hesitation made Gobber’s ire rise like the spines on a Nightmare’s back – sharply. Even his apprentice, even _Hiccup_ thought he was weird!

The lad still looked downright flabbergasted, mouth opening and closing like a fish. He was clueless as to how to respond. Gobber had always been alone, and for as long as Hiccup had known him, he had always been happy that way. The blacksmith joked, he smiled, he laughed, and while he was one of two people who always went home to an empty house, he never gave any indication, not so much as a hint, that he’d ever wanted for anything.

Mildew was alone and he was not happy that way. He griped, he whined, he frowned, and he was talked about behind his back with disgust. He obviously wanted respect, and he had as much chance of getting it as a limpet.

Hiccup could relate. It felt like he was doomed to be alone, and not happy, and to whine at anyone within earshot and have his name married to the rotten grapevine that spread through all of Berk. He wasn’t like Gobber. Being happy like Gobber? It was a dream that lived somewhere high above his head where he could never reach.

Maybe it was the Ceremony. Maybe he was still grieving his father. Probably he was grieving the path his life could have gone down. Most likely it was all three, but whatever it was, Hiccup’s throat closed.

“I…I can’t-”

Gobber saw nothing but the boy he cared about, the one person left whose opinion mattered stepping away from him, _and for the most despised person on the island, too_ , and his blood began to boil. “You can’t?” the man quoted, tone acerbic. “What’s holding you back, Hiccup? What, is something wrong with me, eh, something worse about being like Gobber the G-like _me_ , than Mildew the Miserab-!”

The old Viking jumped when two thin, leatherclad arms slipped around his enormous girth and squeezed. He fell silent and still and in response the hug grew more confident, more sincere.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with you, Gobber. I wish I was like you, but I’m not. I can’t-“

Hiccup broke off, before his voice could.

Gobber was rigid, the words splashing into his mind like a brick into a pond. Nobody had said that to him before. He knew it wasn’t true, he was crazy old Gobber after all. But it was a lot easier to believe when the words came from someone else. He wished he hadn’t had to wait forty-some-odd years to hear them.

He let out a loose sigh, the anger draining away to leave the understanding man he had worked so, so hard to be. It was all in the past. His issues were old dogs and should be resting by the hearth.

It was all about his apprentice – his not-apprentice – now. He pulled the lad in closer, pretending to ignore the unVikingly tears of a soul that didn’t like what he was and didn’t know what to do. He patted him on the back as gently as he could, and then told the boy a lesson he wished he had been told when he was twenty, too.

“Yakshit. You don’t have to be like me. You’ve got skills, talent, and your own special personality. You’ve got everything you need, Hiccup.”

The lad’s shoulders shook. Gobber bit his lip, and then added, “You can be a great blacksmith…just like me. If you want.”

 

* * *

**The Adventures of Runi and Stoick (Pt. II)**

Stoick was beginning to get very familiar with the vibration and timbre of the sound of a Night Fury using his deck as a landing strip.

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe unpleasant, possibly cruel, but 100% true, previous argument still burning in his mind, but was interrupted by four other, smaller thuds on the deck.

Stoick glared into the eyes of his murderer. The dragon sneered back and used its head to gesture at the creatures that had just boarded his ship. “You want a crew? Fine. Here’s a crew.”

“Woah woah woah… _we_ have not agreed to being the crew yet, right boys?”

Stoick’s glance skimmed over the newcomers before his eyes nearly popped out of their skull to do a double take. At first glance, the creatures were human, standing on two legs with arms, clothes, and a face.

At second, they were freakish. They were, first of all, completely bald from the tops of their shiny green heads to the bottoms of their flat, lily pad feet. And Stoick was fairly certain they were covered in slime, like a frog. The leader was nonchalantly observing his…the Viking decided to go with fingernails, and each time his fingers separated, a disgusting string of what looked like _mucus_ stretched between them.

One of his pals used his tongue to lick his eyeball. It came away with an unpleasant squelching sound.

“So, where are you taking this dump, Blackie?” the leader addressed the Night Fury, the spitting image of a greasy salesman trying to sell a broken mug. Stoick might have felt some indignation at being treated like the cabin boy on his personal funeral ship, except he didn’t really want to have anything to do with the…things. So he left the unpleasant negotiations with the disliked creatures to the much hated dragon.

Rúni bared his teeth, circling a little to keep the offspring of a frog and a lily pad a set distance away. “Barpfarkthureww.”

“Hours?” Sleazeball inquired.

“Around the dial. No breaks.”

“Duties?”

Rúni gestured to the silent Viking Chief. “Do everything he says.” Then after a moment’s thought, he added, “Ignore all impulses to shove him overboard.”

Sleazeball turned an assessing eye to Stoick and Stoick crossed his arms. “A human? Looks like an ill-tempered one.”

“He ended up in the wrong place,” Rúni input quickly. “He’s very sour about it.”

Stoick couldn’t keep his lip from curling at that.

“Sounds tough, boss,” a second of the Frilypogs said. “I dunno about this job.”

Of course, the smirk he sent Sleazeball told Stoick it really wasn’t that tough, and they were just milking it up to get good-

“Agreed, but let’s hear ‘em out, Slip.” Sleazeball jerked his head in Rúni’s direction with a greedy sneer of his own. “What’ve you got for compensation?”

Rúni smirked right back, settling down into a sitting position on the deck. “You, sir, are dealing with a dragon.” His eyelids fell half-mast and the beast looked quite smug as he proclaimed, “Fish, of course.”

Sleazeball perked up, rubbing his webbed hands together happily and the oversized ear-frill-things on all four of the abominations shivered with excitement. “Fish!”

“Ooh, I haven’t had a fish in ages! Not even a nibble!” one whispered and Stoick saw the Night Fury’s ears perk up at that statement, his mouth curling into a sly smile.

“Fish…so delectable, and mouth-watering-“

The fourth Frilypog licked his eye again, looking incredibly happy.

They were silenced with a glare from Sleazeball. “Fish, eh, I don’t know, dragon, it sounds like you’re trying to take advantage of us, right boys?”

His entourage chorused an agreement instantly.

“Yeah, so it had better be a lot of fish to make us agree to hauling this ugly stack of boards all the way to Barpfarkthureww, under the command of Crabby over there.”

At this point, Stoick’s scowl could not get any bigger.

He watched resentfully as the monsters squabbled and bartered over the price of transporting one (1) human to this Barpfart place by funeral ship, feeling deeply out of place and half-ready to jump overboard and swim to Berk by himself. He had a gut feeling it would be easier and far more pleasant than drifting down a current in the middle of a cosmic river behind the gods’ backs with a ship and a Night Fury. And these things.

“Done.”

“Deal.”

The two beasts nodded in agreement, slapped one tail/lilypad against the floor, and stuck their tongues out in tandem. And then the Frilypog stared up expectantly at the Night Fury.

Stoick blinked when the Night Fury started – was he coughing? No, he was heaving, he realized with dread, as though he were about to-

The Viking chief’s mouth fell open incredulously as the dragon deposited four drool-covered but otherwise intact salmon straight onto his deck, one after the other. His stomach turned at the amount of light reflecting off the scales and the puddle of sticky saliva they were lying in. It was singularly one of the most unappetizing things he had ever witnessed.

The Frilypogs ‘mm’ed almost in unison, each staring at their fish like it was a prized dragon’s head. Stoick had to turn away from the carnage that followed and didn’t dare look anywhere but at the dull waves over the side. At last, there was a satisfied smacking sound.

“Cans we have more now, boss?” the fourth, unfortunately dim-witted creature asked eagerly.

The Night Fury looked down at him, unamused. “I’ll give you the rest of your fish when we get there. To work!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm...hmm. Well, didn't want to make yall wait any longer for a chapter. Not too happy with the middle section (I broke my limited 3rd person rule! You may all criticize me to the ends of the earth for that) but this story needs to move forward. And my lab report, too. So here this is.
> 
> @Guest - Dagnabit! Alright. No more Ms. Obvious Sheisa!  
> @bookworm83197 - Thanks! Don't forget your tissues too ;)  
> @Alluring_Alliteration - Aww! Your comment put a big grin on my face :) Yep, I can't wait to get down to writing more of those Stoick-Toothless, Hiccup-Ruffnut scenes, either.
> 
> ~Sheisa


	10. On a Long Journey

**Tell Everybody I'm On My Way**

Sailing with the Frilypogs was, simply put, heavenly. They were lazy, and disrespectful, and they complained about every single thing he asked, and they were downright disgusting, the one leaving a trail of slime wherever he went as he mopped the deck, but they were so much better than the dragon that Stoick was even smiling when the sun slipped below the river.

“Keep her steady!” he called as he stepped away from the rudder. “We’ll stay this course for the night.”

The nearest Frilypog either gave him a salute or a foul hand message. Stoick couldn’t be sure. “Righto, human sir!”

He shook his head and decided for the twenty-seventh time to let it slide. Weird creatures.

Speaking of.

“What. Are you doing?” Stoick asked the black beast perched on his railing.

The Night Fury flicked an ear in his direction and shot another blast of fire out over the darkening water. It landed against a cliff face, part of what looked like an astonishingly tall and inhospitable island off to port. “Just following a tradition.”

Stoick peered out from beside him. The glowing rock left by the beast’s blasts showed a squiggly pattern.

The dragon let one more shot of fire fly and fwoosh against the side of the cliff, then nodded, clearly satisfied although it was too dark for Stoick to read his expression. “There. Done.”

The Viking chief followed his gaze. “Rúni…was…” He squinted. “Here?” he read incredulously.

The melted rocks actually read ‘Run i waz her’ and the r looked more like a v and the az was kind of falling off the line (Stoick would generously call it a line) of writing. He wasn’t sure if he should be more shocked that the dragon could write or that the dragon was so proud of such terrible writing.

“Yep.” The dragon let loose a third bolt and Stoick’s eyebrows rose when he saw it stick and spread across the cliff face, giving it a dull glow. A myriad of ‘I was here’s were revealed, some bigger and even sloppier than the dragon’s. And-

“Wait.”

The Night Fury flicked its ears again. “What?”

Stoick squinted, this time at a huge island ahead. “What’s that?”

“Erm…”

Stoick felt his scowl return. “I thought you said that island off to port was the only one for miles.”

“Yeah…”

“That one’s right in front of us!”

“Um…That wasn’t there last time I passed this way. That wasn’t there two days ago, I mean.” The dragon crouched, wings raised. “Don’t get your horns in a twist, I’ll check it out.”

 

* * *

 

 

**A War Hammer, a Shovel, and an Alibi**

Asmund Hofferson, very proud father of Chief Astrid Hofferson and patriarchal head of the Hofferson Clan, marched into the smithy with a mean-looking stride. His gleaming war hammer swung at his side, the head so heavy that it had taken him two years of conditioning before he could use it effectively. Now he swung it around as easily as he swung his fists. The comfortable weight made him walk with a little more swagger in his step than usual and he was in such a mood as to walk with his broad shoulders pulled back and his chin up a little bit.

His mouth was set in a scowl.

Gobber was there, of course. The blacksmith was almost always seen in the shop nowadays. Asmund gave him a curt nod, the ‘nice-to-see-you-bye-bye-now’ manly acknowledgement, and set his war hammer on the service table with a thump that just about shook the building.

“Haddock!” he announced before Gobber could say anything. “I require your service.”

Of course, Gobber started to intervene. “Asmund! Nice to see you again. How’s the family?”

Asmund grinned broadly, showing quite a number more teeth than was strictly necessary in a friendly smile. “I couldn’t be prouder. Now, where’s your apprentice?”

The slightly older man raised an eyebrow. “In the back, working on orders as usual. What seems to be the problem?”

“Wanted him to see my hammer. It’s a little off,” he added as he hefted it up.

Gobber gave it a critical look-over. “Looks like you’ve maintained it well. May I?”

Asmund smiled pleasantly. “I was actually hoping that Hiccup could look at it if you don’t mind.”

Both eyebrows went up but the smith didn’t protest. “If you wish. HICCUP!” he bellowed over the sounds of a sharpening coming from the second room. “There’s a Hofferson out here what wants yah!”

The work sounds paused and after half a minute the late Chief’s gangly son walked around the corner. Asmund almost snorted at the odd Hiccup outfit he wore – some sort of apron thing with more pockets than any man needed.

“Hofferson,” Gobber nodded as he left. “I’ll just be in the other room working on Bucket’s spears.” He clapped a meaty hand on the boy’s weedy frame as he went into the second room. Hiccup shot him an unpleasant look.

Asmund set the war hammer back on the table, with enough force to make another solid-sounding bang. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t jump but he did approach the bulky warrior fairly cautiously.

“How can I help you?” the boy asked.

Asmund stared mercilessly. The boy was clearly uncomfortable as after a moment he looked away and fidgeted.

“My war hammer seems to be a little out of balance. I’m not sure what’s wrong with it and figured you could take a look.”

Hiccup looked at the shining, well-polished head and oiled handle. It looked impeccable. “O-kay.” He squinted at it suspiciously and ran a hand around the joint between the head and the shaft. “Any particular reason you wanted me to look at it specifically?”

Asmund grinned jovially, again with quite a few teeth, and slapped the boy’s back with the force he would have usually reserved for his best friend. It drove the boy into the table, probably marking him a little blue on one hip. “Well you aren’t going to be an apprentice forever, are you? It’s about time you started getting more experience with these things. Someday you’ll be the one handling all the orders, eh?”

Eesh. Scary thought.

Hiccup merely grunted as he tried to lift the hammer. Asmund grinned at his struggle.

“May Gobber live a long and healthy life,” the boy answered sardonically. “On another note, I’ve been a full blacksmith for about two years now.”

In the end, he had to carry the head in the crook of his arm and hold onto the handle as he carried it to a work table. As he bent over to examine the head more closely, Asmund continued his own inspection.

Weak as a twig, as always. Scrawnier than a southerner and as weird as the day he’d been born. But Asmund couldn’t deny that he was ~~impressed~~ pleased the young man had done something for himself. It came as quite a shocker, seeing as the kid had never seemed to have the potential to have a career in anything but being a nuisance. But he actually had a future, as pitiful as it was compared to his father’s.

Asmund still didn’t like him.

“Well I don’t see anything wrong,” the lad said, standing back up. “You’ve taken very good care of it, sir.” At full height, he was actually fairly tall – maybe even taller than Jorgensen. The top of his head came to Asmund’s nose, making him taller than any of his contemporaries. Unfortunately he was even skinnier than the Thorston twins.

Asmund’s mouth curled a little.

“Are you sure? Maybe you should take a closer look,” Asmund suggested. “There must be something wrong with the head. It just didn’t feel right when I was practicing with it the other day.”

The boy eyed him. “Well how do you swing it? I can’t really check the balance myself.”

Of course he couldn’t. “Better work on that, lad,” Asmund advised, lifting the hammer easily with one muscular hand. He smiled in return to Hiccup’s light sneer. “A good blackcsmith needs to be able to check weapons you know,” he heckled a little further.

“So I hear,” came the clipped answer.

“Now let me show you.” And Asmund proceeded to give one of the best weapons demonstrations he ever had. He started with the basics, simple swings in which he smashed invisible enemies out of the way and crushed absent skulls. The boy ducked under one singing swing although he really didn’t need to – Asmund didn’t want to take his head off, yet anyway.

But he went through a few difficult combinations, and finally heaved the hammer with a roar right out the window into an unfortunate tree all the way across the clearing. The tree cracked and splintered into two pieces.

He turned back to a wide-eyed boy, ignoring the grumblings of the Vikings his hammer had whizzed past.

“You know what, I think I was wrong. I must have been out of practice, you know, haven’t had time to go through my routines as usual with winter coming. Thanks for taking a look at it, though.”

He sauntered past the frozen boy towards the exit, pleased as the cat that stole the cream when a certain tool caught his eye. He actually already had one, but, well-

“But wouldn’t you know I lost my shovel recently? Can’t seem to find it anywhere, so I’d like to take this one.”

“Uh, o-of course,” the boy stuttered. “Just- Gobber, he runs shop, get, I’ll get-“

Asmund’s smile widened as Hiccup completely gave up and left the room.

The blacksmith came out. “What’s this I hear about a shovel? Hammer all ship and shape, Asmund?”

“I just need more practice I think,” the Hofferson answered smoothly. “But I’d like to purchase this shovel.”

Gobber looked at it. “That thing? That’s for sowing seeds and turning dirt, Asmund. Ain’t a tool for winter.”

“That’s perfect,” Asmund grinned. He thought he saw the shadow in the next room shift uncomfortably.

The blacksmith shrugged but again didn’t question him. “A’ight, as you think, Hofferson. Shovel’s worth five silver pieces. Planning on starting a farm?”

And so Asmund left the smithy, four silver pieces poorer after bartering and one unnecessary shovel richer. He cheerfully swung it up on his shoulder and had just collected his war hammer and turned the corner out of sight of the wide-eyed blacksmith when his daughter walked up to the smithy.

He didn’t see her, but he certainly heard her call in her best chief voice, “Haddock!”

 

* * *

 

 

**The Beefroast  
**

Theoretically, Stoick knew that Night Furies were the fastest dragons to exist. Seeing it, however, was an entirely different matter when the Night Fury was flying right at you, wings pumping furiously and ‘ALARM!’ written in bold, capital letters all over his face.

He landed with a sharp thud. “It’s a giant,” he said bluntly. His pupils were slits and his antennae-ear things were twitching. “Oh my Thor, it’s a giant.”

Stoick took another look at the mountain in the middle of the river. “That’s a giant?”

“Turn right, turn right!” the Night Fury yelled, ignoring him in favor of scrambling across the deck. Stoick grimaced.

“Hard to starboard, and adjust the sails to pick up the wind!” Stoick ordered.

“What wind?” the Frilypog at the helm hollered back.

Stoick grit his teeth. “Whatever wind there is!”

Viking and dragon both turned back to the mountain that was coming up on them – fast.

“We have to avoid his arm.” The Night Fury nodded to something Stoick couldn’t see, ears twitching nervously. “If we do that we’ll be fine.”

Wait, actually he could see. The world was slowly going from a starry pitch black to a softly glowing orange – the soft glow you would see if you looked at a far-away village that was being burnt to the ground.

Stoick’s eyes widened. “That’s his arm?!”

“Harder right, starboard!” the Night Fury screeched suddenly. Stoick stared at the rapidly-approaching arm, and then at the speeding water that was carrying them.

“It doesn’t go further right, dragon!”

“We’re going to be eaten! Why’d we take this dumb job for a stupid human?!”

The janitor Frilypog licked his eyeball again, looking extremely worried and clinging to his mop.

“Turn, turn or else we’re going to die!!”

“ENOUGH!” the Chief roared. The ship instantly went from a panicked tizzy into silence. Every single eye was turned to him. “Rúni, get the rope. You’re going to pull, as hard as you can. All crew! Draw in all the sails. I’m taking the helm.” Silence. “GO!”

Everyone scrambled.

Stoick teased the rudder, twisting it this way and that. As the Frilypogs struggled to climb yards and untie sails, and the Night Fury grunted with exertion from every wingstroke, the Chief let the ship run with the current and then turned it, letting its momentum shoot right a bit, and then again…and again…

“THERE IT IS!”

One of the Frilypogs screamed. Stoick could feel the heat from the water on his bare skin. The monster was mountainous. Honest-to-Thor mountainous with a dumpy-looking body that was shaped like a very old, very fat man. It was _sitting_ , sitting! in the river, one arm held out to catch anything drifting in the fast current and the other using a gigantic spoon three times as wide as Stoick himself to stir the bubbling river.

The gargantuan troll didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Everyone quiet!”

The only sounds were Rúni’s wingbeats. Each one made Stoick’s skin crawl with dread.

So close…so close…he could see the huge fingers, gnarled and so big that the fingerprints made it look like any other ridged scrap of desolate land. They slid silently, just a foot away, and Stoick held his breath, praying to any god – no, Thor, just Thor (and maybe Loki for good measure) as the rear of the ship swung in the current…and came so close he could have stood by the side and touched that rocky skin.

The hand was so huge and they were so close that it blocked out the view of the giant. But it did nothing to block out the sounds of bubbling river water, the cries of anything that had been unlucky enough to be swept in, and the giant’s deep, thundering voice:

**“Don’t need a pot….Don’t need any spices……Don’t need ANYTHING special to make good stew! Just good ingredients…”**

The flame giant’s voice was so low it made the air shudder and Stoick’s painfully still heart shiver, and so slow it felt like time had become molasses. They were moving so fast, they were going to be out and that thing would only ever be in his nightmares then-

**“What did I miss?”**

Oh, Thor.

The arm lifted, leaving a vacuum in the river and pouring water all over them and Stoick didn’t have to look to know what the giant was reaching for. The ship pitched.

“PULL! PULL! PULL!” he bellowed.

“I’m PULLING! I’M PULLING!” came the dragon’s voice, the hissing undertone making it unmistakable even as the water and the giant roared.

Stoick staggered, the wheel cracking from his grip as the ship was abruptly lifted out of the river. Water cascaded over the sides and he felt like his legs might collapse as they rose in the air, the roar of the dragon and the screams of the beasts and even the crashing water drowned out by the flame giant’s all-encompassing voice, burning ember eyes scanning the inhabitants clinging to the ship.

**“Not much meat…Is it even worth breaking this shell?”**

It was amazing, seeing a face go from curious to delighted so slowly – it took a full half minute for the giant’s features to stretch into a broad grin.

**“Oh! Perfect! She always said Midgard produces the most tender meat!”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote so much last semester. I must have written at least a couple hundred pages.  
> Unfortunately, it was all technical reports on concrete and asphalt. Sorry.  
> So with the start of a new semester, here's another chapter! I really wanted to add the Astrid/Hiccup scene...but then it would take me another couple weeks to write.  
> Sorry to Slim Shady. I also really want to get to Ruffnut, and the fourth season of the TV series has finally done her justice! But I do need to get through some plot first. Just a touch. I've noticed the boring thing, too, but you're the first to say it so thanks. That's a New Year's resolution then.  
> I'll try to write again soon, as always.
> 
> ~Sheisa


	11. Ladies are to Sewing as Ruffnut is to Blowing (Stuff Up)

“You know, I don’t understand you. I really don’t understand you,” her mother said, shaking her head at the sight of the mess of cloth in Ruffnut’s lap. In some mothers, those words would have been teasing, the phrase completed with a patient ‘but I’m going to keep trying’ and softened by an affectionate edge. Mrs. Thorston however had a note of complete bewilderment, and worse, despair, and it made her daughter feel like the type of rot that was home to poisonous fungus.

Ruffnut felt like she was two years old again: inept, helpless, and clumsy. Her fingers were aching from the needle in her hands – she couldn’t push the needle through anymore without wincing at the feeling of the dull end digging into her flesh. Her thread, so straight at first, was a jumbled, loopy, low-quality mess from how often she had had to take it out (assuming she hadn’t needed to rip it out). The ends of her fabric were now severely frayed and she hated the sight of them.

It had been a long time since she had wanted to cry. But now, she bent her head, leaned over her work as though she needed a close-up to see her stitches properly, hid her face, and let just a few fat tears fall. Just enough so that when she looked up again you wouldn’t be able to tell they had been welling up uncontrollably a few seconds ago.

She took several deep breaths, refusing to sob.

“If we weren’t so short, I would march you right up to that stall and force you to pick some decent colors. In fact, I should have done that to begin with!” Her mother huffed and held out a hand, either not seeing the distress of her daughter or choosing to ignore it. Ruffnut honestly wasn’t sure. “Let me see.”

Ruffnut gladly scooped up the disaster and dropped it in her mother’s arms with as little attitude as she could manage.

“Now don’t be huffy. You’ll catch more men with honey than with vinegar.”

I don’t want a man, Ruffnut would have said aloud. Except her voice might have shook. And she didn’t need to hear the hundred and one reasons she had to get married coming from her mother’s rather scalding tongue again.

Her mother ran a critical eye over her admittedly pathetic work. “Your stitches are still terribly uneven. These here, see them? They’re far too big. You’re going to have gaping holes between them.” She poked a few fingers in between the stitches and Ruffnut kept her eyes wide and dry at the sight. “And these are a little small, but they’ll do. Or at least they would, if you didn’t have to rip this part out.”

Her mother handed it back and Ruffnut stared, wishing tantrums weren’t so inappropriate when you were twenty years old.

“Well?”

Ruffnut dropped the tangled heap on the table and stood up, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes. “I need some water.”

By the time it was dark, the ladies were still sitting where they had been that morning and Ruffnut’s legs were cramping up from all the downright weird positions she had tried to sit in to help her sew the damn tunic better. But, and this was a very important but: she was very proud of her last seam.

The stitches were even.

The fabric was pieced together beautifully.

The tension in the thread was perfect, not so tight the fabric scrunched and twisted and not too loose.

The fabric ends were tucked so they wouldn’t run.

It had taken hours.

But it was perfect.

The tears abated, and she almost smiled at her success – her accomplishment, damn those stitches looked good – as she called for her mother’s attention. “Mom? Look at these?”

“Hmm.”

Ruffnut held her breath.

“Take them out.”

“… _What?!”_

“You just sewed the hole for the head together. Take them out.”

Ruffnut stood up, refusing to look at her mother or take back the pathetic pile of rags. “I’m going to get some more water from the well.”

“No you’re not. You are going to sit there and finish this tunic. You’re twenty years old,” her mother bit out as though it pained her to say it. “A tunic should be a simple matter for you. When I was your age I could make five tunics in a day. This ineptitude is unacceptable.”

Ruffnut made no move. Her chest constricted dangerously.

“You will sit down, young lady.”

Ruffnut sat. The tunic was arranged on her lap and a seam ripper was thrust into her hand.

“When I come back in the morning, I expect this tunic to be done. That means wearable,” her mother added.

“I can’t get it done by tomorrow morning,” Ruffnut said, because she had to respond to that. Because her mother was being unreasonable! Because this was “unacceptable,” she whined in the most obnoxious voice she could in her head.

Because she really, truly couldn’t. But she didn’t dare say anything else.

“Then that’s too bad. Because tomorrow is washday. And you don’t have any other clothes to wear while you’re washing these.”

Ruffnut’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Did you use the oil today?”

Before she could reply, her mother ran a hand through her hair, and then a finger over her lips. Ruffnut nearly spat at the fishy taste of the oil from her hair.

“You’re lips need some more. Use it again before you go to sleep, and you’ll use them again tomorrow. Goodnight, dear.”

Ruffnut remained still as her mother bent down and kissed her on the forehead. She didn’t so much as twitch when her mother settled down early for the night. She ran her fingers through the fabric, feeling the perfect seam with one fingertip in a silent ode, and then rose, collecting the tunic and a candle.

“Where are you going?” her mother’s voice drifted from the corner.

“The Great Hall has more light,” Ruffnut said, and headed out into the night.

If their mother had known where she was really headed, Ruffnut was sure she wouldn’t have let her leave the house for a week.

But Ruffnut felt trapped. Or rather she felt like a trap, ready to spring on whoever was unfortunate or stupid enough to aggravate her even further. She was _not_ inept. She was _not_ worthless. She was _not_ a disgrace. She _could_ be a bride if she really wanted to. She could sew a garment if she had to. She could cook a good meal if she needed to.

She ran her tongue around her teeth and finally spat out the fish oil taste.

The fact that she hadn’t done any of this yet didn’t matter. She _could_. She could do it.

Ruffnut bit her lip, keeping her head down and expression angry because holy Hel, anger was a million times better than sadness. The villagers she passed gave her a bit more space than usual, and damn it all if she wasn’t grateful for it as she stomped through the village in search of her twin.

Some good, destructive explosions would help her get her head on straight again.

And who knows, maybe a sack would fall somewhere it shouldn’t.

Ruffnut belatedly had a mental image of her scrubbing away at sooty, unwearable clothing as fast as she could, cheeks shining in the sunlight.

Well…

She brushed a hand over her eyes and swallowed some of her anger.

There would be explosions.  That would have to be good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here; just the typical thanks to readers, kudoers, and especially reviewers! I have decided to just enjoy writing out this story rather than agonize over any writer's block or imperfect plot twists, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it just as much. Feedback and constructive criticism are of course always appreciated and look forward to more frequent updates! (At least until school starts again.)
> 
> ~Sheisa


	12. Hiccups Have Feelings

As a general rule, Hiccup tended to avoid Astrid.

Well, Hiccup avoided most people to be honest. Being the disgraced son of the former chief always made him think twice before showing his face in public.

But if he was on fire and Astrid was holding the only bucket of water in the village, he’s pretty sure he would still make a beeline for the ocean. Hel, he’d rather climb into a dragon’s mouth than look her in the eye because Astrid made him feel very, _very_ -

“HADDOCK?”

Uncomfortable.

Astrid barged, there really was no other word for it, _barged_ into the smithy, cloak swishing in her wake and her battle-axe twisting on her belt. Hiccup had to resist the urge to dart into his room and pretend he hadn’t heard her, like a skittish little kid hightailing it from a crime scene. He startled badly though and nearly ripped the order in his hands as he spun to face her. Their eyes locked for a split second, fiery blue meeting rich green, before he looked away.

He didn’t notice that Astrid jumped in that split second, too. He did notice that she stood with her feet spread a little further apart than usual as though she were uncomfortable herself.

‘Here’s to hoping it’s a short conversation,’ Hiccup thought as he turned on his poker face.

“Hello, Astrid. What can I do for you?” He eyed her weapon. “Your axe looks like it’s in good condition.”

“Hi-“ Astrid paused, cleared her throat, and swallowed. “Hiccup.” His name was unfamiliar on her tongue. “I have a question for you,” she enunciated clearly.

“…O-kay?” Hiccup answered when it was clear she was waiting for a response. He shifted, looking for an excuse to look anywhere but her face and casually blinking whenever her eyes came close to finding his.

When it became clear he was not going to stand completely at attention, the corner of her mouth twitched in displeasure but she continued.

“I am proposing a union between our families, the Hoffersons and the Haddocks,” she said with a strong air of propriety and dignity. “I think this is a very good match. I have a higher political and social standing and you have a higher economic standing and by combining our houses, we will only bring each other up. I want the Hoffersons to be financially secure and not have to worry each winter. You are the last of your house, and I can help you, continue it and keep it in good social standing and maintain the influence it’s always had.”

She paused.

“This would be a very beneficial alliance for both our families. Hiccup, will you marry me?”

“Do I have to give my answer now?”

Hiccup desperately tried to kickstart his brain back into gear as a dark shadow fell on Astrid’s face. He was so unprepared for this, and it felt like he was sixteen again and just walking in his home to find his father teaching his new protégé for the first time-

His mouth spun out of control.

“I mean, this is, rather unprecedented, a complete surprise-“

No, it’s not! some part of him cried wildly. AND YOU DON’T HAVE AN ANSWER! STUPID!

“And not the best time for a wedding, you know, winter coming and food rations, we’ll have to ration food. Now really isn’t a good time for a wedding feast. Don’t have the people and resources to waste on celebrations and all…”

“A feast is out of the question for the moment,” Astrid agreed, cutting through his rambling. Her displeased look burned his broken façade. “But I’d like to get through the negotiations before the end of winter so we can celebrate immediately once it’s over.” She gave him another heated look that chilled him to the core. It made a little, squished voice whisper, _he never did anything right, did he?_

“I suppose you have until midwinter to think about it, but I’d like an answer sooner rather than later.”

Hiccup stared dumbly after her as she left, striding out of the forge as though she hadn’t just proposed a life-changing, earth-rearranging idea.

MARRY her?

On a very, very deep level, some boyish, primal part of him was incredibly satisfied. This, this feminine goddess on Midgard with just the right shade of golden hair, the clearest blue eyes, and flawless skin, a very shapely figure with luscious curves in all the right places and healthy muscles that spoke of perfection wanted to be intimate with him.

A more acceptable part of him was hooting and hollering with happiness that this amazing person wanted to be his partner. Hiccup fully appreciated Astrid’s forceful determination, her ability to succeed when she shouldn’t, her dedication to her work, and her honorable and principled character for years. The beautiful looks may have attracted his eye, but it was her amazing personality that really caught him.

Both parts were insignificant next to a crushing wave of bitterness.

Hiccup was not stupid. He knew that Astrid didn’t ask him because she wanted to be intimate with him, or because she wanted to be his partner. If they married, it would purely be a political alliance binding the families together. There would never be so much as a lick of romance, a crumb of love between them. Their interactions would always be exactly what it had been here –as impassioned and meaningful as a conversation in the public marketplace.

And it wasn’t just because of Astrid.

It was at least half because of him and his own personal issues with her, the person who had taken his place in the tribe, and more importantly, in his father’s heart. As silly as it was, Hiccup felt he had been betrayed. And despite all his reasoning, all the times he had told himself that this was the best for Berk and he couldn’t hold it against her, he just couldn’t let it go either. Astrid may have had a beautiful character, but ever since she had been made chief-in-training, she had rarely shown him a kindness, never shown him a care, and never shared her beautiful heart with him. She likely never would.

And Hiccup also couldn’t pretend that it hadn’t put him off. That the brusque dismissals and complete disregard and refusals to even listen to him hadn’t worn him down until his own manner became closed and unpleasant around her. That his father’s attention and the village’s love hadn’t turned him jealous and bitter, and made him hate himself for it.

The match was a smart one. The Hoffersons and the Haddocks – Haddock – could only gain from it.

But Hiccup tended to avoid Astrid, and it was both because he loved her and he hated her at the exact same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes. Yes, I DID get another chapter out in two days.  
> I can't wait to get the next one out - probably next weekend. Because full-time jobs are important, and so is quality writing.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ~Sheisa


	13. Clash of the Twins

When Ruffnut finally spotted the lanky figure with the hunched posture, she was livid. She was also almost crying, her vision blurred by shameful tears that refused to go away. This was partly due to her frustrating failure of a day and partly due to the monster that was stalking her and went by the title ‘marriage.’ But most of her horrendous mood was due to Tuffnut.

As such, she didn’t hesitate to stomp up to Tuffnut, thrust the heavy sack of explosives into his solar plexus so hard she heard his lungs cave in, and start hauling him off by his ear with the most painful grip she knew.

“OW! Ow, ow ow ow stop, what are you-!”

Except it wasn’t Tuffnut. Ruffnut startled and the stranger in her grip stumbled. In a flash, she twisted the ear and threw the stranger she had captured in front of her.

“OW!”

Lean, shy Hiccup braced himself on a knee before her disbelieving gaze and furiously massaged his abused ear, his green eyes and auburn hair flickering in the torchlight by the Great Hall as he glared up at her.

The glare didn’t bother her. But Ruffnut recalled that he had always had a way with words that made you want to ‘rip out his tongue, tie it in a knot, and stuff it down his throat,’ Snotlout had complained after one particularly bruising encounter with the chief’s son.

And sure enough-

“What is wrong with you!” he wheezed.

Ruffnut exploded.

“WRONG with me?! IS there something wrong with me, _Useless?_ Or is there something wrong with YOU!”

“No, there is definitely something wrong with you!” the worst Viking in the entire village actually had the gall to tell her. Coming from him, the piece of grass in the Berkian food chain, that actually _hurt_ because when even the lowest of the low know it, then it’s true.

Ruffnut’s fingers curled into fists.

“Well _I’m_ the Viking here,” Ruffnut bit out past the lump of anger and frustration in her throat. “And _you’re_ the _little kid_ who never even graduated from dragon training. SO WHO ARE YOU TO TALK!”

“How about the guy whom you just assaulted and then dragged by his ear…for no reason!” came the snide reply.

“My sincerest apologies, _little boy_ ,” Ruffnut snipped back, and was incredibly disappointed that her needling wasn’t getting any sort of rise from him. Instead he fixed an irritated, flat look on her that made her anger bubble over. It was the look of someone who expected more and, just like his earlier question, it was something she had received far too much of in the past few days.

“WHAT THE HEL DO YOU WANT FROM ME!” she snapped at him.

“I want you to stop yelling for one!” Hiccup yelled back.

“WELL I DON’T WANT TO STOP YELLING!” Ruffnut screamed back at the top of her lungs. “AS A MATTER OF FACT, I’M RATHER ENJOYING IT!”

“WELL WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME, USUALLY YOU’RE SCREAMING AT-“

“-Me,” a bewildered voice entered the conversation.

Ruffnut’s head snapped around and two furious blue eyes locked on Tuffnut, who had evidently come out of hiding at his sister’s screams. He looked absolutely lost for a second before his twin pounced on him and then he looked incredibly scared, if the torchlight wasn’t playing tricks on Hiccup’s eyes.

“YOU!” Ruffnut screeched. “WHERE WERE YOU, WHERE WERE YOU! I’VE WASTED HALF THE NIGHT SCOURING THE VILLAGE FOR YOUR MOLDY HIDE YOU FLEA-BITTEN, LIMPET-GUZZLING MONGREL-!”

The tangle of Thorston at Hiccup’s feet rolled in the dirt as Ruffnut screamed like a woman possessed, Tuffnut spluttered like a dragon out of fire, and Hiccup hopped out of the way. Hiccup’s eyes widened as the downright vicious wrestlers rolled down the stone steps, helmets clanging a cacophony with each one.

“What’s going on out here?!” someone demanded. Hiccup jumped yet again when the door to the Great Hall opened and a Viking stuck his head out. The man’s expression twisted into disgust when he saw the screaming twins at the bottom of the steps, Ruffnut on top and slamming Tuffnut’s head into the stone while Tuffnut pinned her legs and scrabbled for some support. He scoffed at Hiccup’s astonished face and Hiccup winced at the overpowering smell of mead that swirled away from the man’s mouth.

“Quit your staring, boyo, it’s hardly a spectacle. What else would you expect from those two?” And he went right back inside to his drink, Hiccup was sure, not looking concerned in the slightest.

Hiccup was very concerned as he turned back to the brawling twins. The Thorston twins fought and screamed and threatened and inflicted bodily harm on each other all the time, true. But this looked different. It didn’t have the regular pattern where one twin would leap at the other and they’d scuffle and then pause, just long enough to see who was on top. Then the one on the bottom would try to escape, they’d scuffle again and then they’d pause again, and the current victor would smirk down at the loser whose face was in the sand.

Those were play fights next to what he was seeing now. Right now, it truly looked like Ruffnut was honestly trying to bash her twin’s head in and Hiccup was honestly scared to walk away and leave Tuffnut to the nonexistent mercies of his sister without a witness.

The thought ‘Holy Hel, I had better not leave or Ruffnut might actually maim her twin’ was just crossing his mind when Tuffnut screamed, a genuine scream. Not his artificial ‘OW I’M HURT PAY ATTENTION TO ME’ scream from their dragon training days when he’d get some stinging but inconsequential scrape or bite, or his ‘I WAS JUST JUGGLING FLAMING STICKS AND NOW I’M ON FIRE! WHAT DID I DO WRONG!’ scream. This was a real, true scream.

Hiccup was halfway down the stairs in a blink.

His sister scrambled off of him in a heartbeat.

Tuffnut slowly sat up on the ground, his breath shaky – and tenderly pulled a skein of incredibly dirty, shredded wool yarn from his belt.

“You destroyed it,” he breathed, running his fingers gently through the sandy but soft, torn fibers.

Ruffnut stared at her twin, not understanding, and sent the yarn a glare as though it had personally offended her. “You freaked out over some _yarn_?” she asked incredulously.

Tuffnut ignored her as he stood up and tried to mush the wool back together with his fingers. He gave up in seconds. “It’s completely destroyed.”

“What, WHY is this so important to you?” Ruffnut demanded. “It. Was. YARN!”

“It. Was. MINE!” Tuffnut returned, gesturing with the skein clutched tightly in his left hand like it was still the most precious thing he owned.

He blocked his sister’s punch but couldn’t evade her forever with one hand occupied.

So he thrust it into the bystander’s hands.

“This is my child,” he informed Hiccup.

“Uh….” Hiccup squinted back at him.

“Protect it with your life! I’m trusting you HiCAAAAH!”

Ruffnut dragged Tuffnut back and threw him in front of her.

“Is _that_ what you were doing!” she shrieked, throwing a fist at his nose. “Is THAT what you were doing WHEN I COULDN’T FIND YOU!”

Tuffnut fought back in earnest now, similarly enraged. “YOU DESTROYED IT AND IT WAS MINE!” he yelled back, leaping for his sister and hands ready to pull her down by her hair.

“YOU DISAPPEARED!”

“YOU DESTROYED IT!”

With an angry roar, Ruffnut finally grabbed one of the sacks she had been carrying and swung it, as hard as she could, straight at her brother’s head-

-only for the sack to be grabbed and yanked, throwing her off-balance and nearly crashing into the grabbee. Tuffnut stumbled when his fist didn’t connect with anything but air.

“That’s enough!” Hiccup commanded. “No more fighting.”

The Thorston twins glared at him for a moment, but when he didn’t quail, instead holding the sack behind his back defiantly, they turned their glares on each other.

“I can’t stand your presence,” Ruffnut announced.

“Likewise,” Tuffnut sneered back.

“But I’m going to go to our Windy, Cold Alone Place-

“Yeah? Well I’m going to Dark and Soggy then,” Tuffnut snapped out before she could finish.

Ruffnut stiffened. She opened her mouth to say something, possibly something she just might regret later on-

“Tuffnut! You want this back, right?” Hiccup interrupted, stepping forward and shoving the yarn scraps under the male twin’s nose.

With a final sneer at his sister, Tuffnut angrily snatched the yarn from Hiccup’s hand and stalked away.

Fine.

Ruffnut blinked hard as her shadow walked away without her and angrily snatched Hiccup’s still-hanging hand.

“Wha-what, what are you doing?!”

“Shut up and follow me,” she commanded, stomping in the direction of the forest so hard her boots left imprints in the frozen soil.

“Windy and Cold isn’t a place you go to without a buddy and since my supposed twin is ABANDONING ME LIKE HE DID ALL DAY TODAY…” She raised her voice so the silhouette could hear.

“You’re it. Don’t let go of that sack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really wanted to get this out yesterday, but...oh well. I still count this as a victory.  
> I'm so glad people are enjoying it! A special thanks to my reviewers for their meaningful comments. I'm glad I didn't disappoint with Astrid's rather unromantic proposal last chapter.  
> I'm going to peg the next update as BY next weekend - hopefully I'll have something sooner but we shall see.
> 
> ~Sheisa


	14. A Flame on the Wind

A hand appeared on the rocky ledge.

“Oh.”

Another joined it.

“My.”

Hiccup’s head popped up over the ridge.

“Gods.”

His eyes narrowed when he saw Ruffnut crouched on the shallow ledge looking entirely too amused. He opened his mouth.

“You little _monkey_.”

Ruffnut cackled, turned away, and started climbing again. She glanced down when she heard a groan and saw Hiccup haul himself up onto the shallow ledge. It looked like hard work. He had to wiggle his butt in such a ridiculous manner as he inched his way up the rocks that she snorted with laughter.

“You are a despicable human being,” Hiccup announced flatly from below, which unfortunately didn’t help him climb any faster or stop that humiliating snickering in Ruffnut’s wake. He eyed Ruffnut enviously as he paused to catch his breath. She looked like a wildcat, effortlessly grabbing just the right rocks and pulling herself up with an unmatchable grace. She was also doing this fearlessly up a very shear rock face. If Hiccup had known that in the twins’ lexicon ‘a hike’ translated to ‘a death-defying, wall-clinging adventure consisting of taunting gravity until it decided to prove it was real’ he would have refused to take another step. In fact, he should have done that in the first place instead of stuttered ‘Uh. Alright.’ like a sucker.

Now Berk’s cold, cold wind was buffeting him and the sack on his back and his hands were white, either from the biting air or his deathgrip on the rocks he wasn’t sure. His stomach was flipping and flopping, too. At this rate, Hiccup thought a little nauseously as he looked up, they were going to be climbing upside-down.

“Come on, Beanstalk, we want to get there tonight!”

“The only thing I want to do right now,” Hiccup shouted back as he tested a rock with his weight, “is NOT DIE. That would be GREAT.”

Ruffnut paused to throw back her head in a silent laugh before continuing up with a grunt. Contrary to how it looked to Hiccup, the ascent to Raven’s Point was not easy for her. Her legs were tired and her arms were already sore and chilly. Her breath was short and she knew her hands would start cramping up soon from how hard she was gripping the rocks.

But.

“This is insane!” Hiccup called up to her as he struggled and screamed when a rock rolled out from under his feet. “You are insane!”

“I think you mean I am AMAZING!” Ruffnut called back, grinning widely with adrenaline. It was those aches and pains that made the whole thing worth it. Tomorrow, when she was still a little numb and could barely move her arms and the scrapes on her hands still stung, they would be the scars that reminded her this climb was real. As she trudged through another tough day of criticism and misery, she would remember that she had completed this Trial by Ice and Earth and she was _amazing_.

She could almost taste the success as she fluidly pulled herself up onto the parlor ledge, muscles still smoothly responsive despite the tough climb.

Hiccup in comparison balked when he saw what she was standing on.

“There is not enough room for the both of us on that thing. Will you keep climbing! My arms are going to fall off and let the rest of me fall to my death unless I get up there.”

Ruffnut rolled her eyes and tried not to sound out-of-breath. “I’m waiting for you, Molasses.”

“No no, don’t wait for me just keep going!”

But Ruffnut did wait, hands on her hips as she took a short breather and stared down at the boy stubbornly hugging the mountainside. She could actually see his thin arms trembling with fatigue in the starlight and hear his short gasps. It was – impressive, a large part of her said.

Pathetic, her mind filled in a second later, because impressive was basically the antonym to Hiccup the Useless.

But…she was honest-to-Loki impressed, she admitted to herself. She was very impressed by herself for climbing the mountain, and it was utterly impossible to not be just as impressed by Hiccup, who despite all the odds was also at the top of the mountain with her. Not Astrid the Perfect or Snotlout the Brawny – Hiccup.

“Go, Ruffnut. Just go.”

Ruffnut stood straight and stretched her back, getting ready to climb again. “Good news for you, Beanstalk,” she said leisurely, making sure he knew she was climbing again because she wanted to and certainly not because he wanted her to. “It’s another ten feet to the tippy top of Raven’s Point from here. Only one person can fit on the top at a time, so you get to sit here while I climb.”

Hiccup nodded sharply, breath coming in short gasps, and Ruffnut finally started climbing again, her feet disappearing from his line of sight as he laboriously heaved himself up onto the final ledge.

The so-called parlor ledge was nothing like a cozy, warm parlor at all. Its floor was jagged and lumpy and if Hiccup hadn’t been so exhausted, he would never have even thought about sitting on it. It also extended maybe two hand-lengths out if you were being generous and was only five or six hand-lengths wide. Hiccup let his sack thud onto it and then slowly lowered himself into a sitting position, careful not to let his hands slip on the smooth rock-face at his back. He let his legs dangle over the edge and finally relaxed as he leaned back against it-

-only to jump out of his skin when something screamed up above him.

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

His heart felt like it was trying to leap out of his throat and down the mountain even as he realized the crazy thing screaming at Raven Point’s peak was Ruffnut. It was hard to tell from the starlight and the way he had to strain his neck to look up, but he thought she might be doing some kind of weird, tribal victory dance to go with it.

“WHOOOOOOOOOHOO! Who’s the greatest! It’s Ruffnut, ain’t it! RUFF-NUT! RUFF-NUT! RUFF-NUT! YEAH!”

“Ugggh,” Hiccup moaned. “MONKEY!”

“YOU SO JEALOUS!”

“No. No, I’m not,” Hiccup mumbled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again. “I DON’T HAVE TO CLIMB UP THERE AND DANCE AROUND LIKE A JACKASS TO I?”

“NOT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO!”

“Awesome. You know,” he continued, more to himself than to the crazy twin at the top of the mountain, “I always thought Tuffnut was the crazier twin. He’s the one who always said the most absurd, inane things and you’re the one who just nodded along like ‘that makes sense, the Hel are you looking at us like that for?’ I now know that I have been living a _lie_.”

There were a few moments of peace, ignoring the hooting pagan at the top, before his rest was interrupted yet again.

“Throw one!”

His face twisted with confusion, eyes still shut. “’Scuse me?”

“Throw a boomball!”

Hiccup sluggishly gave his sack a look. “Is that what’s in here? Cause it felt like I was hauling a sack of acorns. The way it was poking me in the back was really uncomfortable.”

“Just throw one!”

That sounded like work. “Haven’t we already done enough tonight?” he complained, even as he drew the sack’s opening up and pulled one of these ‘boomballs’ out, observing it. It was some type of hollow shell, made of dried-out mud by the rough, flaky texture against his thumb. A cork had been used to trap whatever was inside. Some type of gas, Hiccup figured as he hefted it a little in his hand, his inventor side surfacing for a moment.

“Absolutely not! We are at the summit of success! The apex of victory! The zenith of achievement! We MUST celebrate so as to remember, this GLORIOUS moment!”

Hiccup squinted at nothing in particular for a moment. “Uh. What?”

“JUST THROW THE DAMN BALL!”

With a very put-upon sigh, Hiccup hefted it up as high as he could.

Something ignited upstairs and Hiccup’s eyes flew open as a sparking flare clipped the ball, cracking the mud and letting the gas-

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

-explode.

Hiccup stared, spots from the flash dancing in his vision and ears ringing with the echoes of the boom.

He could hear Ruffnut’s grin as she ignited another flare.

“Again!”

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

This time, Hiccup caught sight of a thick gas spewing out of the bomb before the gas blew up in a brilliant flash.

“WHAT DO YOU PUT IN THESE THINGS!” he yelled amidst the booms of another few explosions. They were actually a little amazing.

“Zippleback gas!” came the answer from above. “Damn it, I missed!”

Boy and girl watched as the flare stuttered out as it fell to the forest floor far below.

“Another!”

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

Hiccup turned another over in his hands. He tapped it, and reared back as the mud cracked a little under the abuse and indeed, the noxious smell of Zippleback gas leaked out. He threw it with a yelp.

“I WASN’T READY! THROW ANOTHER!”

The gas, he figured, was pressurized somehow. “How did you get the gas in the shells?” he asked as he obligingly tossed another one up and out.

This time the flare hit almost instantly and Hiccup cringed at the sound, feeling his heart shudder at the deep noise.

“There’s a sack full of the stuff in the Zippleback’s gas head. If you can get it out without popping it, and if the dragon didn’t use all of its gas before you killed it, you can pour it out in a concentrated stream!”

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM_

“Huh.” Hiccup took another out and played a little with the cork, pushing it a bit. “That’s…pretty amazing.”

There was a pause. It was a little awkward, and Hiccup internally despaired because it had been going along so well.

Because despite all his grumbling and stupid comments and dumb complaining up the mountain, his ‘you coerced me’s and ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this’s and ‘why AM I doing this’s, he knew himself well enough to know why. He couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Gobber had actually wanted him around. He must have been nine or ten the last time someone had invited him to hang out, and being sort-of kidnapped was close enough to being invited and climbing a mountain was close enough to hanging out that he hadn’t resisted too much. The grumbling was all a front, a way to hide the fact that he was actually happy to be a rebound, substitute twin.

It was better than being a Mildew.

“You want me to throw another one?” he ventured.

Ruffnut shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I’m out of flares.”

“Ah.” Hiccup craned his neck to look up again. “So…are you coming down now?”

He heard Ruffnut sigh and the rustle of clothes. Ruffnut folded herself into a sitting position, putting her chin in her hand.

“I want to enjoy the moment a little more.”

“Hmm,” Hiccup hummed to fill the silence. Unbidden, his hands started toying with the shells – he was NOT calling them boomballs, that just sounded stupid – in the sack. “Well I’m not going to complain if I get a bit of rest out of it.”

No response. It was clear Ruffnut wanted some time alone to her thoughts, and so Hiccup let himself get lost in his own, nervously allowing himself to enjoy a peaceful moment next to someone who didn’t hate his guts. He ran his fingers over the corks again. The shells were amazing, considering the twins had invented them. They could be a good defense, blinding incoming foes and letting their wielder escape, or get into position for an attack. He popped open a cork and pointed the opening away from himself, watching an astounding amount of gas pour out and drift slowly, heavily down the mountain-side.

Hmm.

“How much is a girl who can climb a mountain worth?”

Hiccup’s mouth answered before his brain could actually register the sentence, go ‘what?’, and ask for sensible input.

“One sheep.”

“Just one?”

“Well…mountain-climbing isn’t in especially high demand these days.” Hiccup shrugged. “I guess it depends on what else she can do.”

“How much is a girl who can climb a mountain and kill and butcher dragons worth?”

“Three sheep. That’s one for each skill.”

Ruffnut snorted despite herself. “That’s not how it works.” Astrid was worth ten flocks of sheep, and it was because she could kill dragons and be a good chief. By Hiccup’s reasoning, that would place her at two sheep. Ruffnut laughed as she realized that she was actually worth more than Astrid, in some twisted, warped world.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just…nothing. Nothing at all,” Ruffnut lied, eyes still crinkled with mirth. Because as she thought about it, it really wasn’t funny. Her bride-price was probably a good flock of sheep because she could kill dragons and defend a house. She was fully capable of bearing children, and while she wasn’t the island’s greatest cook, she had a few recipes up her sleeve. But no one offered a flock of sheep. No one offered three sheep. Nobody offered even one sheep, because…

She put her face in her hands, blocking out the lights of the village far, far below and the shine of the rolling sea.

“How much is a moderately pretty girl who can climb a mountain, kill and butcher dragons, and cook decently but can’t really sew and spends a lot of time fighting with her brother worth?”

Something rustled below her as Hiccup put down his pet project.

“I don’t think…I guess…uh…Hmm.”

Ruffnut took a deep breath. The answer was nothing. Her face rose a little though when Hiccup tried again.

“It depends on how much the guy, you know…l-loves this hypothetical lady. I guess.”

Love. There was a foreign thought. With dragon raids and starvation threatening the tiny, isolated island where every day was a fight for survival, Ruffnut envisioned any type of romance to be a sizzling passion born from the fiery, resentful embers that lay in the hearts of two young people who had been forced together by necessity. The idea of a tender, budding courtship leading into a happy union felt out-of-place, to say the least.

Kind of like Hiccup.

“Should’ve known you were a romantic,” Ruffnut mused out loud.

“I just want a chance,” Hiccup responded, and Ruffnut was surprised by the heat in his voice. “Is that wrong?”

“It isn’t very common. You’ll probably be disappointed.”

“Mm,” came a dissenting hum.

Ruffnut stared out again over the dark forest and at the lights on Berk, jubilation gone. The climb had helped, but she knew once she got back to Berk it would all be in her head. The only person who wouldn’t view her as worthless would be herself – and maybe Tuffnut, if he wasn’t still mad at her. And if he was actually around.

Nope. It would just be her.

“Wish I had another flare,” Ruffnut sighed.

“Funny you should say that when I just got an idea,” Hiccup said from below. “Hang on.”

Hiccup patted his vest down, feeling for where he had stashed the rope and pulling it out. He grabbed his knife from under the vest and began cutting the rope into pieces about as long as his forearm.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” Hiccup called back up as he took out a jar of tar he kept in his belt. Gobber thought he was nuts to carry something so flammable, but Hiccup had found it useful when he needed things to stay together and didn’t have the extra hands. He dipped the ropes in it now, getting the tar all over his hands as he made sure the ropes were covered with only a light layer. Then he quickly removed the cork from a shell and stuffed the end of the rope in before the gas could leak out.

Once he had modified each of the remaining shells, he tied them all together and pulled out his flint.

“So hopefully this works,” he said casually. “If it doesn’t, sorry to disappoint.”

He lit the knot and threw the arrangement into the air, as hard as he could.

Ruffnut stared at the flame licking away at the ropes, greedily racing down the tar. “What did you-“

BOOM BOO-BOOMBOOM-

It was a cacophony of noise as the night lit up and each boom bounced around. It made Ruffnut want to cover her ears and shut her eyes. But she didn’t, because it was beautiful, like an unearthly dance troupe accompanied by a similarly unparalleled symphony. She didn’t look away until the very last flash, when the ropes, still burning merrily, fell down to the forest floor below.

“So…hopefully that doesn’t start a fire,” Hiccup said, looking down. “It’s not fire season so-what the-RUFFNUT!”

Ruffnut, when he hadn’t been looking, had climbed down from her throne and was standing on the same ledge, right on top of the now-empty sack. Hiccup almost backed away on impulse – she was standing s _o close_ – but held down his urge to flee, the chilling image of a long, rough fall making him freeze.

But she was right there, so close their hips were pressing against each other and their arms and shoulders bumped with every move.

“Warn me! Oh gods, Ruffnut, I would have climbed down if I had known-“

“Your turn.”

“…What!”

“I’m done. It’s your turn,” Ruffnut repeated, nodding up at the peak she had come down from.

“You said I didn’t have to!”

“And now you do.” He was going to be difficult about this, wasn’t he. Strategically, Ruffnut began inching her way around Hiccup, putting him in the best spot to start climbing.

“What are you-“ Hiccup didn’t dare struggle as she trapped him between her arms and navigated her way to the other side of the ledge, her heels hanging off the end. Her entire torso was pressed up against him now, and the close contact made him shiver uncomfortably. “No! Stop! I don’t want to!”

“Well if you don’t, then you won’t be able to say that you climbed Raven’s Point,” she pointed out, finally letting him go.

She was still way too close and Hiccup backed away as much as the ledge would allow. “I’m not planning on telling anybody that I climbed Raven’s Point in the first place! They’d sooner believe I flew up Raven’s Point!”

“Screw what they think. Don’t you want to be able to tell yourself you climbed all the way to the very top of Raven’s Point?” Ruffnut asked, edging closer. Hiccup flinched and grabbed a rock – the rock that you had to use to start climbing to the top. “Don’t you want to be able to tell yourself that you are amazing, that you’re worth something? And not have anybody able to take that from you?”

That was the exact reason she had decided she was going to climb Raven’s Point the first time. Hiccup’s mouth twitched.

“You should go up there now, unless you’re planning to hike all the way up here again.”

Ruffnut felt a flash of triumph – and pride, excuse me, where did that come from? – as Hiccup looked for his next handhold.

“A little further up. Right,” she suggested helpfully.

“…I can barely feel this rock. I swear, if I fall and brain myself and die, this is all your fault, Ruffnut.”

He hoisted himself up, flailing with a leg for some purchase.

“And I will tell everyone I meet that I was killed by a maniacal monkey named Ruffnut Thorston!”

“Here,” Ruffnut said, grabbing his foot and guiding it to the sweet spot she always used. “Baby Thor in a thunderstorm, do I need to tell you where to put each hand and foot?”

“That would be very helpful, yes.”

So she did, and when Hiccup finally made it to the tip, the irrational thoughts ‘Hiccup is impressive’ and ‘I am so proud’ ran through her mind.

“Dear Odin, you danced on this?!”

“Up up up!” Ruffnut sang.

Like a baby just learning to walk for the first time, Hiccup slowly, carefully placed one foot on the rounded bit of rock that was just maybe big enough for him to rest his bum on. Then the other. Ruffnut gave a celebratory whistle when he finally stood up, arms spread for balance, and looked up and across Berk.

“Ey, he made it!”

She almost missed his very soft, wide-eyed ejaculation, “Oh…”

“Now! Give us a roar.”

The expression of wonder disappeared. “I don’t roar.”

“A victory shout. A battlecry. Anything!” Ruffnut demanded.

“How about, I did it,” he answered, turning his attention back to a view of Berk that he had never seen before. “I did it,” he repeated softly, sounding amazed, impressed by himself.

It was exactly what Ruffnut had been after. Her twin had never truly understood why Ruffnut liked the High and Windy Alone Place so much more than Dark and Soggy. He did it because it was dangerous and they were into that, but if someone just wanted to sulk or brood, he didn’t get why Ruffnut always wanted to go to High and Windy. It was too much work.

Hiccup got it, she could tell. And tonight, on one of the worst nights she could remember, she was glad she had brought him up here by accident because having someone who just got it helped.

It helped a lot.

“Hey, Ruffnut?”

An odd note in Hiccup’s voice made her frown. “Yeah?”

Hiccup was squinting, and-

Wait a moment, she could see his face pretty clearly.

“Is that…the dawn?”

“…Yeah.”

Ruffnut thought about dawn and wash day and the unfinished fabric scraps dropped unceremoniously in front of the Great Hall. She thought about her mother, who must have been up for hours now on the early-morning Nightwatch and was expecting her daughter to have a new (if not nice) tunic by now.

“We could just stay up here, couldn’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost called this chapter 'Image on a Motivational Poster.' Anyhow, welcome to the start of Ruffcup ^.^ Words cannot describe how happy I am that Hiccup is starting to get a social life because this is where the really fun stuff starts happening.
> 
> @Vexis - I am so glad they confused you! As the author I know their motivation completely so they seem too logical and almost OOC to me. It's good to know I've stayed true to them :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Sheisa


	15. Numbers and Fishlegs Don't Lie

It had only been five minutes and Fishlegs already wanted to be back in his bed snuggled cozily under his covers with the heat from the fire tickling his feet. Instead, he huffed some hot air onto his hands, rubbed them together, and turned so that the cold, damp wind giving him goosebumps hit the dense pack on his back instead of his exposed upper arms. He made a mental note to get a long-sleeved shirt in his wardrobe soon, the merciless teasing and taunting and sissy-comments be damned. Let everyone else suffer numb, blue-tinged skin if they wanted – he wasn’t putting up with that again.

The trip was sure to be a cold one. Clouds covered the sky like a thick, woolen blanket, one of the many signs that winter was nearly there. The likelihood of a snowstorm increased with each passing day. He mentally ran through his checklist – extra pair of underclothes in left pocket, some salted fish and dried jerky in right pocket, journals and pencils with extra charcoal in bottom, flint next to them, two waterskins hanging from the top, and thick skins for a small tent folded neatly in the middle. Was he forgetting anything…

Right. His small assortment of throwing knives hung from his belt. Hopefully he wouldn’t make a fool of himself with them. And a hammer for self-defense dangled from a loop on his pack, put there at the last second by his mother who had laughed at the sight of him as he headed out that morning before securing the hammer with surer hands than any of the Ingerman men would ever have and planting a kiss on his forehead.

In stark contrast to his happy household, everyone else seemed subdued in the early dawn. Passerbys nodded small ‘good mornings’ at each other, otherwise keeping their heads down and their steps steady, trudging forward into the start of what could very well be the first day of winter. There was little conversation as people trudged down to the docks with their burdens, the ship below being made ready to set off on an important but dangerous voyage.

But there was one conversation that cut clearly through the drab morning.

“What’s going on?”

“You are going on a trip. You will be part of the hunting party Chief Astrid is leading. I packed your bag for you. Catch as much as you can and follow the Chief’s every order. Do you understand me, Tuffnut?”

Fishlegs pretended not to notice the sharp tone of Edna Thorston’s voice. It was clear that she was very vexed with her son and it always made Fishlegs feel a little...squeamish…to witness the tension between a displeased parent and unhappy child. After all Tuffnut couldn’t help it if he was a little odd in the head. Fishlegs couldn’t help it if he was a bit of a coward, but did his parents ever yell at him for his flaws?

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good. This is an important task, Tuffnut. Do it well and make the family proud.”

Fishlegs always felt squeamish because he knows he’s very lucky. He often wondered if his friends resented him for it.

“Good morning, Tuffnut!!!” he said as cheerfully as he could as the other boy approached, pack dragging on the ground. Tuffnut looked sadder than Fishlegs could ever remember seeing him and the exclamation points died quickly on his tongue. “How’s the…how’s the…tough night, huh?”

Tuffnut sighed, flopped onto the edge with his chin in his hand, and stared at the docks below. “Fishlegs, my friend…It’s tough being me.” A smile slowly started to spread and then the grinning, maniacal face Fishlegs was more familiar with broke through the morose façade. “Get it? Tuff?”

Fishlegs groaned.

“Not particularly clever,” he pointed out dryly despite the fact he was glad Tuffnut could bounce back like nothing ever happened. The benefit to having such a porous memory, he supposed. Some things stuck, like who out-belched him in the last contest, and some things seeped right through, like his mother’s harsh criticism. He joined Tuffnut on the ground, dangling his legs over the edge and setting his pack down. Fishlegs spotted a golden-haired Viking with a silvery fur cape approaching the ship. As soon as the Chief had sent the other party off, they would leave.

Fishlegs squinted as he tried to count how many had volunteered to go. “Think they’ll make a good haul?”

Tuffnut shrugged, unconcerned but squinting harder than Fishlegs and leaning over the edge in a haphazard fashion, clearly looking for something. “I dunno. They make what they make.”

Fishlegs shuffled through his memory, pulling up an image of the lists when he had signed himself on. He explicitly remembered that Hoark Hogson was in charge of the traveling party. “Hoark’s our best hunter,” he thought out loud. “He’s got a .951 accuracy.”

Tuffnut spared him a glance, twisted around to scan the village again, and then went right back to staring at the ship, scratching an itch on his nose.

“No one else comes even close to that with a bow and arrow. Most of the other people I saw on the list had an accuracy between .45 and .7. So let’s say they catch 60% of the prey they find as a group,” Fishlegs estimated. He made a face.

Tuffnut raised a hand to block out the nonexistent sun.

“But any animal that hibernates is long gone by now. The birds have migrated. I don’t know the exact deer and boar populations but I’d estimate around a hundred boars given the size of the island, maybe five herds of deer, each at 30 members. That’s 250 big game animals, spread out around the island.” Fishlegs’ heart sank along with his stomach and suddenly he was really not hungry.

He shot another look at Tuffnut, who glanced up, started at the realization that Fishlegs was waiting for a response, and nodded sagely before twisting to for something in the village again. A bubble of irritation – make that several bubbles started rising as Fishlegs got the distinct impression that he was being ignored. He raised his voice a little.

“They’re not going to stick around long enough to find all the animals and it takes time to track, so they might catch 50. Then there’s all the little prey. I’m not even going to attempt to guess the populations, but on average we get a rabbit every other hunter and the occasional squirrel. They only have 33, that’s 50 big animals and 17 small animals. That would hold our population for- _Tuffnut, are you even listening to me?”_

Tuffnut waved him off with an infuriatingly dismissive hand. “Of course.”

“Really. What did I just say?”

“Thirty-three somethings…er, squirrels are occasionally fat...faith, trust, and-”

“TUFFNUT!” Fishlegs was scandalized – and frustrated. He was itching for someone to listen to him, to take him seriously. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s seen the food stores, kept up the numbers, monitored the prey populations on Berk. He spends his days in his father’s footsteps, talking fishing trips and catches with Mulch and Bucket, flock sizes and health with Phlegma the Fierce and Silent Sven, game management with Hoark, and the final numbers with Stoick and Astrid. He runs all the risk management calculations in the storage-room-turned-study beneath the Great Hall. He made the charts detailing the prey populations and Berk’s populations and the food per capita that line its walls. He’s seen the numbers shrink with his own eyes.

He _knows what he’s talking about_ , so why does he always get _ignored?_

“ _Tuffnut_ , we only have enough food to last us halfway through the winter – and that’s on minimal rations starting from Snoggletog! We could maybe get through the whole thing if the dragons don’t attack – but raids are always more likely throughout the winter! We are going to lose half of our food storage to dragons, and that’s not even going into the property damage and firewood, and then where are we going to be!”

Tuffnut gave him an unconcerned, vapid look that made Fishlegs want to shake him. If only the expression ‘shake some sense into someone’ had some truth!

“ _Think_ about it, Tuffnut!” Fishlegs half-pleaded, half-commanded. “Just _think!_ _Don’t you get it!”_

_“A-hem.”_

A tap on the shoulder made Fishlegs turn around, and he startled and cowered at what he saw.

Astrid’s eyes, blue like the soft mountain flowers in spring but sharp as a glacier, drilled into him. The rest of the party stood behind her, faces ranging from disapproving to shocked.

Astrid’s eyes were furious and her voice was cold.

“While Fishlegs is overstating the direness of our situation-“

Those fierce eyes narrowed and it took Fishlegs several tries before he could swallow. _Shut up and don’t cause a panic_ , they said with such an air of command that “Yes, ma’am” came out of Fishlegs’ mouth in a whisper.

“-we _do_ need to be as efficient and productive as we can. Let’s move out!”

She strode to the front purposefully, graceful despite the compact but undoubtedly heavy pack on her back and the deadly axe in her hand. The party followed automatically, drawn by her unquestionable leadership, but many straggled a little as the Ingerman lad swung his pack up on his back and began to trod at the back of the group.

Fishlegs started when another pair of boots fell in line with his and looked up at Mr. Larson (who had a hunting average of 0.663, much better than his 0.345. He was going to embarrass himself for sure.)

“Those were some worrisome predictions you were rattling off, young man,” he said, voice soft. Fishlegs cringed, half-glancing at the Chief up front who had sharp ears and always seemed to hear the things you didn’t want her to.

He frowned when he caught sight of the slightly-turned heads behind her, the perked ears waiting to hear what he had to say. Listening, and taking him seriously, and rather than giving him a sense of euphoria as it should have (People were listening! He was being taken seriously!), he felt ready to throw up.

Mr. Larson leaned a little closer, breath warm as it brushed past Fishleg’s ear. “I’ve a young lad and an even younger lady. I’d like to ensure they survive the winter, so if you know anything, please tell me. What were you saying, lad, about a food shortage?” he asked quietly.

Fishlegs couldn’t shake the sight of Astrid’s blazing eyes. Unlike Tuffnut, Astrid’s light was never off, burning with the brightness of the sun. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he didn’t dare go against her. Not with eyes like that.

Fishlegs licked his lips, stuttered nervously, and promised that as long as their hunting trips went well they would be fine, even as the falling charts bleakly filled his mind’s eye.

As the group walked off, Tuffnut lingered at the edge for a second more, less concerned about Fishlegs’ doomsday and more interested in the hunters filling the ship that was sailing away. When he finally spotted her brunette hair in its intricate braids, finally saw a very short figure wearing bright orange emerge from the crowd of muted tunics and dull helmets, he shouted with joy.

“HEY-O! SAFE SAILING!”

An echo came back, making the rest of the ship jump like someone had just lit a fire under their feet. It just barely reached him.

“…Heyo! Happy hunting, Tuff…”

Satisfied, Tuffnut grabbed his pack and headed off in the direction his party had gone with a swing in his gait. His steps slowed as he passed through the village one last time, eyes combing the streets for even a glimpse of swinging, blonde hair.

But Ruffnut wasn’t there, and a bit of anger and a bit of shame clawed down his cheerful mood as he ran to catch up with the party disappearing into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY-O! Happy Independence Day, America! A three-day weekend has brought forth another chapter.  
> Hope you enjoyed Fishlegs' point of view. He gets ignored a lot, and for me, it's because he's a pretty happy guy with a pretty happy life. I always got the feeling in canon that he had a supportive, accepting family that cared more about comfort and food than battle skills and contests. The Ingermans know the secret to happiness. What other higher goal is there for them to achieve?  
> Thanks to all my readers!  
> ~Sheisa


	16. Heroes of Old

An epic quest to save his homeland, communing with the gods, battles with immense giants, and unwanted companions at his side – this was the stuff of legend, a story the skalds would sing until the end of time.

Stoick was a sight to see. He swung his mighty hammer in one hand, the block-like head slamming into the monster’s rocky skin with a bang that made the river sing. His other hand was a mere fist but still left cracks in its wake when he punched. His movements were flawless, graceful despite the splintering floor. He looked like a Hero of Old with water and steam falling around him, reflecting the hot glow of the stew below, destruction all around his feet, and unyielding stubbornness in his gaze. Thor’s hammer sang from his hip and his blood raged with the fire of battle.

At last, with a resounding roar, he lunged forward and – _BAM!_ – beat his own head against the giant, leaving a helmet-shaped imprint in the monster’s skin. Immense cracks ran and spread and with the sound of a flaming boulder landing in the town square –

The monster’s finger fell off.

Stoick staggered a little and shook his head in an attempt to reconnect the double images swaying before his eyes.

The giant gasped in slow motion like a little kid who had just tripped down the stairs and discovered he bruised his knee. The sound was like the groan of a crumbling mountain. And in a voice that for some reason made Stoick envision a pout, the giant said, _“YOU TOOK OFF MY FINGER!”_

Stoick grabbed the railing as the ship suddenly moved and his feet flew out from under him. He nearly let go to cover his nose when fresh, clear air became stale and he desperately spat at the foul taste filling his mouth. The smell of brimstone was immense and Stoick wished he didn’t have to breathe. Looking up and all around, Stoick saw that his ship had been wedged under the pit of the arm holding the bubbling river stew in place. Long stalactites dangled above his head, dripping liquid fire onto his deck that scorched the boards before burning out.

Something coughed beside him and Stoick turned to see the dragon land. It looked like it was half-choking on the stench.

“It was still very impressive,” it assured him when it caught him looking. Then it coughed again. “So. Ideas on how to escape?”

Stoick grunted and ran a hand across his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on.

“Brilliant.”

Dragon and man tried to breathe as little as possible as they watched the giant wave his tongue around in his mouth, working up a good wad of saliva, Stoick presumed. Maybe it was sticky?

Their vantage point made Stoick’s heart drop into his boots as he really took in the immensity of the giant before them and thought of all the effort it had taken to cut off a mere finger. And it was only the pinky. Stoick suddenly didn’t feel so great about his marvelous success. Especially when, cheeks puffing, the giant spat on the stub where its finger had been.

Like a stream, lava splatted across the cracked rock. The bestial thing delicately angled the pinky with his hand and pushed it into the stub, twisting it a little with the sound of an earthquake as it aligned the finger just so.

Stoick’s mouth fell open. So not only was it the devil to break, it could just glue itself back together. Well then.

“Look at him, undoing all your hard work.”

“Unnecessary and unappreciated,” Stoick answered curtly. “This is our chance to escape.” Except his brain was scrambling for a plan that would get them out of this mess. He needed the ship free and out of the monster’s clutches. This was the perfect opportunity. The monster couldn’t move the one arm without losing its love stew and both of its hands were tied up until the lava cooled, limiting its range and making it unable to do anything but yell at them the minute they hit the water. But the only way to reach the water was to make the ship drop and the only way to do that was to break the giant’s shoulder.

Stoick’s fingers shifted over his hammer handle. He could do it. But by the time he was done, the thing would probably already be swatting at him and ready to place them in some other despicable hellhole while it put its arm back on. Possibly under its rump.

Stoick gagged at the thought.

This left the obvious choice to ask the Night Fury gracing his barely-recognizable deck. The Night Fury with explosive plasma who could tear a catapult apart with one shot and, you know, burn a hole in a man. And who also hadn’t done anything helpful up to this point.

“Dragon, fly up and blow up the shoulder. We’ll pick up the current as he’s distracted trying to put himself together.”

“What,” it hacked out, the dire situation evidently bringing out a boldness the dragon rarely had the courage to display, “do you think I was just hovering in the air counting the currents while you beat up his finger? I was _not_.”

“Really.” Because it sure seemed like it to Stoick.

“I can’t get the height,” it gasped out, “height I need. All my plasma did was give him a few _freckles_. I even shot him in the eye! But it just disappeared. The eye’s lava. He just _blinked_.”

“That was not something I wanted to hear,” Stoick said in lieu of having anything actually worth saying to say.

The dragon gave a cough that shook its entire body and made him wonder if dragons could possibly contract bronchitis.

“There’s…too many fumes here. I…have to…”

It wobbled to the railing, clambered gracelessly up, and glided into fresher air, its flight completely lacking the power Stoick was accustomed to seeing. It was like watching a dying man dragging himself along the ground.

_Some help_ , Stoick thought sourly.

But to the dragon’s credit, Stoick grudgingly admitted, he did hover in hearing distance, ready for any order Stoick gave.

Stoick turned back to the giant’s finger. The giant held it patiently, waiting for the red-hot lava to cool. The lava looked a little like blood from this distance, the excess squeezing out and dripping down the gnarled, pitted arm in rivulets until it cooled. For melted rock, it was actually a pretty ghastly sight.

The revelation struck Stoick like one of Thor’s backslaps.

“Dragon! DRAGON!”

The Night Fury’s ears perked and flicked in his direction. “What?”

Could a Night Fury even do what he had in mind? “Can your fire melt things? Rock?”

The black dragon hovered a little closer. “Maybe. You want me to melt his shoulder? That thing’s massive. I don’t think I have the plasma left to melt something that big. I don’t think I could do it even if I hadn’t wasted half my shots.”

Stoick grit his teeth. Damned shot limits. And they were running out of time. The giant was already admiring its disturbingly reattached appendage. “Try!” he demanded.

“What?”

“I said, TRY!” he roared as the hand, in slow but sure motion, reached for his ship.

**_“NOW……WHERE…WERE…WE?”_ **

“TRY, DAMN IT!” Stoick screamed as his ship was grabbed again.

What came next was not worth having in a saga sung in Valhalla, or even a fish story told in the Great Hall, or any story intending to make Stoick look good, ever. The giant, clearly not bright enough to think of breaking the ship into smithereens and letting Stoick fall into the bubbling water below or perhaps not wanting to have to pick up all the wooden splinters that would drop into his stew, shook the ship like a child’s rattle toy. And Stoick clung to it like a tick on a deer. This went on, and on, and on until Stoick honestly feared that Loki’s “Su-per-glue” really wasn’t working and his insides had all come loose and scrambled inside of him. He couldn’t hear if the Night Fury was actually following his orders or not, and he certainly couldn’t see. But the Night Fury had “chosen” him to end the war, and followed most of his orders and Stoick realized – now was not the time for earth-shaking revelations, thank you, but – Loki take him for a practical joke, he was treating the damned thing like a _dog!_

The dragon had followed his every command. He continued to give it commands. It snarked and it whined and it complained and it completed each task abysmally, but Stoick kept on giving it commands, like he trusted it to do them.

And despite the fact that he did not trust that son of a bitch in the slightest, _no he did not_ , he somehow knew the dragon – demon – was doing its darnedest to melt the monster’s shoulder.

This damn fact was confirmed when the giant noticed.

“BUG! THERE’S A BUG ON MY SHOULDER!”

Stoick only had a moment to tighten his grip on the broken deck boards, not even feeling the splinters dig under his skin, and think either ‘this went better than I hoped’ or ‘world’s deadliest bug’ when the ship and he went flying out of the monster’s grip. The world turned nauseatingly on its head and Stoick would never tell a living soul that he screamed the whole flight, from the minute the ship left the monster’s hand to the moment it smacked into the cool, fast-paced water, upside-down and in tatters.

It didn’t look heroic in the slightest as Stoick scrambled in the water like a drowning rat and used the barnacles to pull himself up onto his ship-turned-abominable-piece-of-driftwood-that-refused-to-sink.

It was definitely not heroic when Stoick clung to the barnacles and dumped an aquarium out of his helmet.

And Stoick didn’t feel heroic at all when he heard someone scream and saw a smudge slightly darker than the rest of the sky go flying up, up, and out of sight, flicked away by the panicking giant. He felt horrified because that was Thor’s son and Loki’s nephew and it felt like the whole world had turned against him as he envisioned Thor’s thunderous face disappearing behind a lightning fist and Loki’s sharp smile, ready to tear him apart mercilessly.

But then Stoick heard it before he saw it.

It was a distinct, piercing whistle, an almost imperceptible buzz at first that grew into a scream Stoick had never, ever in a million lives thought he would be happy to hear.

The black angel of death dove faster than Stoick could see, wings tucked and body shaped like an arrow. It fired faster than Stoick could track, and shot away faster than he could blink. The only sign it had been there was the truly massive explosion under the giant’s armpit. Reinforced by a height the beast would never have been able to achieve on its own wings and all the fumes and flammable gases in the air, the explosion left spots in his vision, made his ears pound, and sent the weakened arm crashing into the river.

Stoick blinked several times and twisted his head, feeling more than seeing the dragon thud onto his boat, the timbers shivering under his fingers.

“Got…his…arm.”

“Good job,” Stoick answered after a moment. Because it really had been spectacular, even if it had been late in coming and a complete accident. And because death-defying stunts deserved some type of praise.

The duo turned and looked upstream where the giant, already made smaller by distance, was stomping up and down in a fit of fury at his lost stew, bellowing wordlessly at the top of his lungs so loudly it sent shivers down Stoick’s spine and made Rúni wince and press his ears flat against his skull. It was even swinging its lost arm around like a battleaxe, too upset to even consider sitting still and reattaching it.

Once he was certain the giant was not coming after them and no god was about to fly down in a rage and smite him, Stoick flung himself over the uncomfortable barnacles, threw an arm over his eyes, and muttered in a very, very quiet voice, “Are we there yet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get Stoick and Runi back onto Midgard in this chapter but when I tried to attach the second part it just failed miserably. Not much else to say here except thanks for reading, as always!  
> ~Sheisa


	17. Packs and Pacts

In a valiant effort to provide for a family that was twice as big as it should have been and missing one bread-earner, Edna Thorston worked as long and hard as she could. Ever since their family cracked, this had always kept food in their mouths and blankets over their bums. But it had also kept her away from her children, leaving the twins to their own devices from an early age.

A child left to their own devices is sure to get in trouble, and the twins got into more trouble than most of the village could believe at first. More worrisome, they seemed to enjoy their tricks and trouble and the mother was called to come down hard on her two hellions. It was a mistake. The severe scolding that had left even the strict Spitelout impressed backfired exquisitely. The twins learned how to toe the line, and they learned it fast, each screaming session teaching them ten times more about stealth than good behavior.

Now at nearly twenty years of age, the twins were masters of deception and Ruffnut easily made the sad bag of scraps sitting blatantly in front of the Great Hall disappear without a soul noticing despite her aching limbs and drooping eyelids. She rolled to a stop behind one of the blazing statues that stood next to the Great Hall, it’s warmth welcome as she thought about what to do next.

She needed to find a safe place to finish her vest. If their mother found the vest in the state it was in, she would know that Ruffnut hadn’t done what she was supposed to and Ruffnut would get yelled at. Worse, if their mother saw the state she was in she would know that Ruffnut had done something she _wasn’t_ supposed to and she’d get yelled at a lot more. She needed to finish the vest asap, but Ruffnut was fairly certain the moment she sat down, she would fall asleep, impending doom or not.

So she needed to find a safe place to nap and then finish her vest.

Mother was probably sitting at the stall in the market with her collection of worn butchering knives as she did every dawn to midday. But Ruffnut didn’t feel safe there. Mother could walk in at any moment. It had happened before.

She didn’t feel like hiking to Dark and Soggy. She was too exhausted to leave the village. And while she knew a number of hidden nooks and crannies and perfect hiding spots when one was awake, there was always a chance someone could happen upon her as she slept.

She tensed as someone approached.

“Oh, that’s…really Dad?” came Snotlout’s voice.

Ruffnut stayed absolutely still, suddenly aware of how weak her hiding spot was because it wasn’t really hidden. It was simply being somewhere nobody expected you to be and if anyone actually cared enough to look, they would see the hem of her skirt and a good part of her legs.

Of course, if they spotted her it wouldn’t be a disaster. It was just the Jorgensons, but Ruffnut didn’t feel like taking the slightest chance. Adults talked after all and as unlikely as it was for a Jorgenson and a Thorston to give each other more than a glance, she didn’t need her sneaking to reach her mother’s ears.

“I should have done this a long time ago,” Snotlout’s father declared, resting a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. They were walking up the steps – council meeting, her tired mind suspected. Astrid and half the village, literally half the village, were missing. This was good news as it meant less witnesses. They must have been on the hunting trips, leaving the Council in charge.

“You’ve grown strong, and your mother says you’ve grown sharp,” Spitelout continued. “While I’m not delighted about your choice at the chief’s ceremony, this still puts our house in a very fine place and proves your mother right. It’s time I brought you into the Council, my boy.”

At the last sentence, it suddenly struck Ruffnut that Snotlout was actually from a privileged family. Spitelout was the brother of Stoick the Vast, and a member of the Council.

Children traditionally took the roles of their parents and Ruffnut thought she would be very happy if one of her parents had been on the Council. How much would she be worth then?

Four sheep, the answer came immediately and unbidden to her mind. She almost gave herself away, tired enough to find the dumb number actually funny.

But Snotlout sounded more like he had won a consolation prize than the ticket to a happy life. Or like his heart had been broken in two, but Ruffnut knew him well enough to know he didn’t have one. “Really, Dad?”

At least, she thought she had.

She was just so tired it was affecting her judgment. That was it.

Spitelout pulled his son in for a one-armed hug. “Really, boyo. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. You’re a right hero and you can be the greatest man on Berk when I’m in Valhalla. Don’t let me down now.”

The door banged shut behind them.

What happened to us? Ruffnut wondered. For a moment, her mind drifted, too tired to really put her thoughts into words. But it felt like society was swallowing them up whole and spitting out strangers. First Astrid. Then Fishlegs. Now Snotlout.

Was that what was happening to Tuffnut, she wondered, suddenly terrified. Her fingers twisted into the sack nervously, wrapping it around her palm. Was Tuffnut going to drift away until he was nothing but a disdainful stranger, too?

The thought made her sick. Their last dinner together came to mind.

‘Look, you’re nineteen. You are adults. Don’t you think it’s past time you grew up?’

The words of the adults, out of a strange friend’s mouth. Astrid had always been distant, but now she was truly an elite and not to be bothered by the likes of them.

‘Don’t you get it?! Think, you two imbeciles, think!’

More words of adults out of a strange friend’s mouth. Fishlegs had joined the ranks of the world, and was suddenly looking down on them too.

What happened to us, Ruffnut wondered again, shocked.

She wants there to be an ‘us.’ She needs to be part of an ‘us’ because the alternative – a shunned, disliked, unwanted waste of space that no one in the world would stand beside – makes shivers run up her spine. She’s known this since she and Tuffnut first set foot out of the house and Tuffnut’s unique way of thinking had earned him a resounding lesson in why fitting in was important. He didn’t remember it. Ruffnut did, and had vowed to support her brother forever that day. They had vowed to be there for each other to the very end as the whole world tried to bash them into the ground.

Well, now the whole world was not just trying, but actually succeeding in bashing her into the ground. And Tuffnut wasn’t there. Even if he was, she wasn’t sure where they stood with each other anymore because she had screwed up. Could she trust him now (if she found him)?

Probably. He had screwed up too and he knew it. They could heal from this, and she would see to it.

The alternative loomed like a jeering monster.

A thought blossomed in Ruffnut’s mind like a flower slowly opening its petals to the light of spring for the first time.

Could she trust Hiccup to help her?

_Yes._

She was surer of this than anything else at the moment, and told herself that she was very, very tired and that her judgment was severely suffering from it.

But she still trudged to the forge where a highly dissatisfied customer was stalking away and a loud, round blacksmith missing a few limbs was yelling at his small, bleary-eyed apprentice for the thousandth time that day. And when the scolding was over and the older blacksmith was gone, the tired apprentice grunted at her request and gave her a long look she couldn’t read clearly (it held doubt, just like everyone else’s, but then it held something else unlike everyone else’s and that’s the only reason she didn’t punch him). And he held the curtain to his precious room back for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall. Sorry for the filler-ish chapter (there's some key plot in here, but eh). I just felt there needed to be a break between the cosmic adventures and also am of the opinion that I really couldn't do the wild ride much justice right now. My mind is in the same state Ruffnut's is in right now - tired.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And for keeping an open eye, Jeff :) I joined FF.net a long time ago when I was much less responsible and less mature (as I'm sure my writing told you) and figured recently I may as well cross-post my stuff. I'm kind of sad HTTYD on FF.net doesn't have many truly magnificent works like Hitchups or To Soar Into the Sunset cropping up anymore and this was my attempt to help revive it, even if I don't quite match up to those wonderful authors. But your heaping compliments make me feel like maybe I am doing it justice!
> 
> Happy weekend!  
> ~Sheisa


	18. Welcome Back

“Wow.”

Sensing that the wild ride was done, Stoick opened his eyes to see Midgard in all of its glory – the grey, cloudy sky of winter, the heavy saltwater of its ocean, and the familiar dry air. The Cosmic Waterway had been breathtakingly beautiful and ethereal, but too transient to hold the firm, rugged beauty of his home.

“Wow,” the dragon said again, a distinctly impressed note in its voice. Stoick raised a questioning eyebrow at it as it flapped its wings, lifting into the air for a moment before lighting down and rigorously shaking off the droplets from the monstrous whirlpool.

“That’s it?”

“What’s it?” Stoick answered, painfully detaching his hands from the barnacles. He had been gripping them so hard their ridges left deep impressions in his palms.

“No fearful screami-sorry, wrathful bellowing? No surprise? No…no nothing?” the dragon asked, eyeing him for a reaction. “I mean, we just went through the mother of maelstroms. No reaction? At all?” It sounded disbelieving.

Living up to his name, Stoick flicked a slimy piece of algae off his shoulder calmly before giving his honest opinion. “The exit left a lot to be desired.”

But it had been the exit, and if the way to Midgard had been a maelstrom that swallowed his ship and spat it down into the calm seas of the Barbaric Archipelago below then so be it. That was the way he was going.

He thought that if the dragon could whistle, it would have given a long and impressed one. It continued to eye him a moment longer and Stoick stared back, mind still a little blank from the experience. Then it shook its head.

“Well. You aren’t the impulsive, blade-happy Viking I thought you’d be. I expected you to yell at me about warning you, or some ‘you’re-trying-to-kill-me’ nonsense, or even just a ‘what the Hel was that!’ Maybe you’ll get farther than I thought.” It paused, then added with a hint of an attitude, “But I still think The One Who Shot Me Down is better.”

It took off, wingflaps slightly uncoordinated as though it had been dizzy, before Stoick had the chance to answer.

This left Stoick in a calm, serene ocean and Stoick took advantage of the moment to put his chin on his fist, fire up the old gears, and begin a long, hard think as he stared into the water, allowing its fluid rise and fall to mesmerize him into a memory from a long, long time ago.

_If it has to be me or you, you had better believe it’s going to be_ you _.”_

It was actually too dim to be called a real memory. The sentence, delivered in a deep, angry growl, was the only thing he remembered with true clarity, that and his fear as he clung to his father’s knee. If he dug a little deeper, he could make out the glint of strange armor and the vibrant tufts of a burnt plume. But it was the sentence that had truly resonated with him, settling deep into his mind and digging a little spot where it would rest always in the back of his thoughts.

If one of us is going to starve, it’s not going to be me.

If one of us is going to freeze, it’s not going to be me.

If one of us is going to die, _it’s not going to be me._

It’s going to be _you_.

In a gentler world, people were horrified by tales of the barbarians from the north that showed no mercy. They threatened disobedient children with tales of giants that didn’t understand the meaning of kindness and would enslave them if they didn’t stay close. They murmured about the Vikings, those savages that were beasts in men’s clothing with no sense of decency, no place in a civilized world.

They were wrong. The Vikings did understand the idea of mercy, of letting the other person live. They understood the idea of kindness, of giving the other person a hot meal and a warm fire. They even understood the idea of fairness and earning your keep.

But. They couldn’t take the risk that the enemy would return. They couldn’t afford to give away food and firewood when they barely had enough for themselves. And if the only way you could get more food or firewood was by stealing, then try not to get caught. You looked after your own, and you expected everyone else to do the same.

_And now,_ Stoick sighed, _now there appears to be a malignant, bestial, murdering, gods-damned_ dragon _in my lot_.

This blurred the lines between “me” and “you” more than Stoick could afford. Was the dragon part of his village?

Stoick smashed a fist into his thigh, expression thunderous. Absolutely not!

But was he charged with its wellbeing?

Loki’s threat burned in his ears.

May as well be.

Thor’s expression burned in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t let the god down.

But sticking the dragon in _his lot?_ It was like dumping a wolf in the middle of a flock of sheep and telling the unlucky farmer, ‘Take good care of them all, you hear?’ What did you think the wolf was going to do?

EAT the SHEEP, duh!

So where did that leave him?

Stoick didn’t let any of these thoughts show on his face as the black dragon swooped in for a wobbly landing, stumbling a few steps before collapsing on the wood with a huff. It had a mouthful of fish that was dropped unceremoniously on the makeshift deck, a few slipping over the side and into the water.

The Night Fury took no notice, gulping down the rest one at a time. It ate slowly, clearly downright voracious but too exhausted to do anything but savor each bite individually. He acknowledged Stoick with an ear flick. “Want one?”

Stoick shook his head. “No. I’m not hungry.” His brow furrowed. “Or tired.” _Because I’m dead_.

“Righ’...”

The Night Fury looked ready to fall asleep even with a fish in its mouth. Its eyes were closed and its tail was dipping dangerously close to the water.

“You sleep,” Stoick suggested, turning around so he could sit a mite more comfortably on the prickly barnacles and keep an eye on their path. “I’ll keep watch.”

He made a decision.

“We’ll head for Berk when you’re recovered.”

“Whhufer yu zayh,” came the reply, drunken with exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I had writer's block this weekend, which stank royally. Do you know how long it took me to write this somewhat insignificant little snippet! I say somewhat because it gets the boys back on Midgard, but that's about all that was significant. Maybe also exploring the 'a chief protects his own' idea and the conflict of interest Stoick's about to undertake. Urgh. This was not my finest writing.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and for reviewing to:  
> @Vexis - I would highly recommend To Soar Into a Sunset if you want to find a good one. That one's also complete, and it really knocked my socks off :) Sorry for the late update this weekend! Hopefully it didn't worry you too much.  
> @Tim - Why, thank you! I'm starting to really like Hiccup and Ruffnut too.
> 
> Keeping my fingers crossed for a more inspiring week,  
> Sheisa


	19. Dramatic Drinking

_I,_ the honorable new member of the Council told himself as he walked towards the Great Hall, _am going to get rip roaring DRUNK off my ASS tonight._

Berk was being graced with a cold, freezing rain that made little ‘pings!’ as the rock-hard drops hit his helmet and stung his skin. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was the kind of weather that made you want to retreat into your own personal bubble and hibernate until it was gone. Not even the sheltered fires in the mouths of the statues that stood by the entrance appeared enthusiastic about the weather; one was wavering pathetically under the assault and the other had all but died, its final coals hissing and fading.

The door to the Hall was heavy and closed with a bigger ‘thunk’ than Snotlout would have liked. A couple of the residents gave hearty hails at seeing him and Snotlout nodded back amicably but distantly, not really feeling up to company at the moment. The Hall was warm, a great fire crackling with welcoming warmth in the brazier, but he still felt cold. Like a dragon without fire. Or a long-dead corpse. Eesh.

He rubbed his hands together vigorously and breathed on them, the hot air dissipating in a blink.

Striding forward purposefully to the table of mugs next to the current barrel, Snotlout filled one to the brim with mead, eyeing the amount critically.

_Okay, muttonhead, time to drink until you drop_ , he told himself, surveying the surrounding area for a nice isolated spot to crawl into and be miserable in. Nobody appeared too social tonight; there were a couple individuals at various tables and a few friendly trios and duos playing boardgames.

Snotlout’s eyes did a double-take of their own accord when they spotted one particular individual. Long face, helmetless head, thin fingers wrapped around the handle of a mug that looked disproportionately big. It was strange to see Hiccup relaxing at the end of the day with a mug of mead like a normal villager. Normal was just not his thing.

But hey, if Snotlout got a free bottle of person-repellant out of it, then who was he to question this wonderful event? Content that no one would interrupt his alcohol-filled night and throwing any care for his likeable image to the wind, he sauntered up to Hiccup’s table, sat at the end of the bench, and leaned back against the wall, the biting cold of the stone muffled against the thick wool of his tunic. It was easy to pretend not to see the half-surprised, half-irritated look sent his way and focus on the fire.

And completely shut down.

The alcohol warmed him from the heart as he sipped and the flames entranced him into a stupor. Did he feel better? Well, no. Alcohol had never made him feel better.

But it did make it easier to keep the emotional tsunami at bay. It helped him forget things he didn’t want to remember, like, like-

The alcoholic barrier trembled like a shack in a hurricane for a moment.

Snotlout took a gulp and frowned when the liquid was suddenly gone.

Well, Hel if he knew. More concerned with the absent mead than his crushed dreams and the bear trap that was his family, Snotlout dragged himself up for a refill.

Just five feet away, Hiccup raised an eyebrow ever so slightly as he continued to pretend the other Viking didn’t exist. His eyes stayed on his paper where his pencil was making idle lines as his cousin stumbled back to his seat, sloshing his cup along the way.

It was his fourth, Hiccup noted. His was only half empty. Was his idiot for a cousin actually trying to drink himself to death?

_And why was he sitting so close to him?_

The itchy, fidgety feeling that always creeped up whenever someone got too close bloomed over Hiccup’s skin like dandelions in spring when Snotlout slung a leg up onto the bench and hugged it.

Oooookay.

Sending out as many ‘I don’t want to be disturbed who’s there? No one’s there’ signals as he could, Hiccup leaned his head on his right hand so that his back was facing Snotlout and focused on his rough sketch. The man’s breathing was obnoxiously loud, interrupting each thought. And each thought consisted of the maddening question, _what is this moron doing sitting next to me?!_

Hiccup debated whether he wanted to refill his own mug.

From before he could remember, ‘that moron’ had been a smug, swaggering, walking and talking ego. Half of the things that came out of his mouth were about how amazing and Viking-like he was, and the other half were about how stupid and weak ickle Hiccup was. Looking back, there were two ways to be amazing: to be honestly amazing and to make everyone else unamazing. Snotlout had employed the second one with the fattest paycheck ever and made tormenting Hiccup a valid hobby on the island.

_So WHAT,_ Hiccup asked, _is he doing sitting next to me on his fifth – no, sixth – mug of mead and NOT being an obnoxious bastard?_

Hiccup’s fingers tightened at another loud, heavy breath that made him want to throw the other Viking across the fire to the other side of the room.

There really was no explanation.

While Hiccup’s thoughts brewed up a storm, Snotlout’s thoughts flat-lined and fled. The fire was entrancing. He didn’t want to miss a second of its beauty as the vibrant neon colors twisted into split-long shapes and flickered out, reappearing almost instantly.

The world felt heavy, like it was laying an impossibly thick blanket on him, and Snotlout felt like the world was lopsided as his eyelids slowly started to drift-

“HEY!”

His eyes shot open when something smacked his cheek.

“You breathe any slower and you just might stop,” a voice said.

“Fire, I never knew you cared so much,” Snotlout mumbled.

“Fire-what-Ugh.” The person made a disgusted sound in the back of their throat. “It’s Hiccup, Snotlout. Hic-cup.”

“’Icca?” the Viking repeated, missing a couple of consonants. He still looked confused.

Hiccup cringed. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Hic-cup.” He stared down at his dazed cousin for a moment, listening to his labored breaths. Holy Hel. He didn’t think he could get enough air if he breathed that slowly.

Snotlout’s eyes slowly focused on the face in front of the fire. “Oh, it’s Nice.”

Hiccup frowned. “What? What’s nice?”

“You’re Nice,” Snotlout blurted.

Hiccup’s mouth turned into a thin line. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m Snotlout,” Snotlout corrected.

Hiccup briefly considering snapping, ‘You’re stupid drunk!’ but was more interested in keeping the other Viking talking to prevent anymore drinking. He took a deep breath.

“Okay. Why am I nice?”

Snotlout gave him a slightly cross-eyed ‘you’re so stupid’ look. It warmed Hiccup’s heart to see the familiar abrasive boy for a moment. But he didn’t answer.

“Alright. Why are you trying to drink yourself into oblivion, Snotlout?”

A flash of panic spread like a wildfire through Snotlout’s mind and Hiccup jerked back when a thick hand snatched his wrist.

“How do you know that?” he asked in a low voice. Snotlout looked around suspiciously, trying to find if anyone else knew his secret plan.

“Ah…because I’ve been watching you do it?”

“I was _not_ ,” Snotlout insisted. “I was not.”

“Snotlout, you drink anymore alcohol and you’re going to stop breathing,” Hiccup repeated from before. “Put. The mug. Down.”

Hiccup watched with alarm when a couple of tears suddenly started rolling down his cousin’s cheeks. Snotlout sniffed.

“You do care! You’re so…nice!” he bawled.

“Um. Er.” Hiccup blinked and, while Snotlout was distracted, gently eased the mug’s handle out of his grip. Thankfully Snotlout didn’t seem to notice he hid it under the table before turning back to the crying Viking. He stood awkwardly for a moment until a muscular arm reached out and snagged him in a bro-hug.

He was not proud of the squeak he made when that happened. His throat closed for a moment.

Then he sighed. “What happened to you, Snotlout?”

“Dad…hic…made me – hic! – a Council member a couple days ago. Hic!”

“Um.” Hiccup shifted, stiff as a board. “Congratulations.”

This was evidently the wrong thing to say as Snotlout squeezed him a little tighter and buried his face in his knee.

“I don’t – hic! – wanna!”

“You don’t want to what?” Hiccup asked, wondering if he had misunderstood.

“I don’t wanna be Council!”

That struck a chord. Snotlout had had the opportunity to be chief, Hiccup remembered vividly. In a kind of shocking turn of events, he had refused, after swaggering around claiming the title when they were kids. Snotlout liked power, and here he was turning it away! Right after telling Hiccup he was nice, as though that was the best thing in the world.

Snotlout cried a little harder and Hiccup was abruptly thrown back into the present. He patted the muscled bicep awkwardly. “There there. You don’t have to be Council if you don’t want to be.”

“Dad will kill me if I don’t!” Snotlout cried wildly. Hiccup instinctively snapped his gaze around the room, glaring at any potential eavesdroppers. Thankfully, everyone else present was far enough away they couldn’t have heard most of the conversation and appeared to have taken advantage of a dragon-free night to drink themselves left of sober as well.

He turned his attention back to Snotlout.

A little quieter now, his cousin sniffed. “I was going to be a dragon slayer of Berk. A mercenary for hire, a babysitter, whatever it took to get me off this rock. Hic! And now I never will!”

Hiccup ran a critical eye over his cousin. He still looked a little too drunk for his liking, but didn’t appear to be in a stupor or in danger of passing out anymore. He’d probably be okay at this point, but…

“Why do you want to leave?” he asked, no longer so much to keep Snotlout talking as to satisfy his own curiosity.

Snotlout immediately stopped crying and jerked Hiccup so close he could hear his rib cage squish. _“Who told you that!”_ he hissed. “That’s a secret!”

Hiccup winced as a puff of air brimming with alcohol swirled past his nose. “You did, Snotlout.”

“I did not!” came the immediate denial.

Deciding to play dumb, Hiccup agreed. “You didn’t what?”

“Uh…uh…I dunno.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause. Then Snotlout blinked.

“Where’s my mug?”

Hiccup wanted to scream.

“I hid it,” he said bluntly. “Because I care,” he added on an impulse.

And this set Snotlout off all over again. Tears fell and Hiccup really wished Snotlout would use his own tunic to wipe his nose.

“Can I be a Haddock?”

For some inexplicable reason, Hiccup was not surprised to hear that question. Somehow, through the drunken mumbling and weird, awkward moments, he had gathered that Snotlout was very unhappy with his dad. He had apparently deviated from his ambitious family’s identifying motto ‘Power is all’ and was now reaping the rewards of that decision. The realization brought a rare (very, very rare) wave of empathy as Hiccup discovered that his cousin was finally figuring out what it was like to be a square peg squashed into a circular hole.

“Sure, Snotlout,” he answered, patting his cousin’s arm again. The skin was marginally warmer than it had been before, which was a heartening sign.

Snotlout probably wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow. He’d probably be back to being the ‘I’m-so-great-and-Hiccup’s-so-not’ boy again, regardless of whatever familial issues he was working through. And Hiccup would go back to being the black sheep of the village who was too nice for his own good.

Way too nice for his own good. His decision to cut everyone but Gobber from his personal life officially lay in shambles now. First Ruffnut, and now Snotlout was beginning to get a toe in a door that Hiccup found himself reluctant to slam, abhorrently enough.

With a grimace at his own folly – because he’d been through this before, was it better to be a pathetic puppy begging for friendship (a Hiccup) or a chipped stone pillar covered (a Mildew)? – Hiccup delicately removed Snotlout’s heavy arm. Moving quietly so as not to wake the drunk-off-his-ass Council member next to him, he picked up the forgotten mug under the table.

Then he slowly finished its contents, swirling the liquid around the cup as he allowed the mesmerizing flames to smother his thoughts and lull him to sleep at the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT UPDATE INFO: I probably will not be able to update next weekend, and I definitely won't be able to update August 13th since that's the weekend I move back to school. I'm not sure where that leaves me in terms of updates? I can get one more chapter out before the semester truly starts, but once it hits, it's going to hit hard and I won't have half a day each week to spend on fanfiction.
> 
> Well, thank you much for the compliment @cgsmithmo, but I still think this week's was much better! I'm pretty happy (and surprised because drunk characters and 3rd person omniscient are weaknesses) with how well this one flowed, hence why It's up a whopping three hours earlier than usual. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Sheisa


	20. The Raid

Rúni stared out across the grey waters with seeming disinterest as Stoick droned on behind him. They were well on their way to the Viking’s village and Rúni felt a little apprehensive, to put it mildly. This was in no way helped by the hum that surrounded them as they headed for the edge of the Mists. He would be glad to leave them behind. It sounded like a pleasant nighttime chorus to the humans – _to his father_ – worth no more attention than the crickets.

But it tortured him as they passed through the heart of her territory, in a way his father could never understand. He pressed his ears close to his head and tried not to listen, not to whine. Not to answer, _I’m scared, I’m SO scared! Help me…_

_…I will help you_ …it whispered _…come, borka, you KNOW I love you…_

Rúni shook his head so hard his ears almost fell off.

And then there was the Viking Chief, who was reciting a list of commandments that made Rúni want to duck his head into the water and drown himself.

“No killing. No mutilating. No maiming, disfiguring, or otherwise causing severe bodily harm. No eating people. No eating people’s sheep. No eating people’s yaks, or chickens, or vegetables. No burning things. No exploding things. No destroying things-“

“Okay,” Rúni interrupted dryly. “Don’t you think you’re being maybe a little ridiculous?”

Stoick paused to give the dragon the stink eye. “…No.”

But yes, because Rúni had been very civil and eager to please throughout the trip. He found himself answering ‘no’ out of principle more than anything else.

“Dad won’t let me even set foot on Berk,” Rúni pointed out with a bit more growl in his voice than usual as an ear twitched automatically, seeking the ethereal source.

“My rules stand,” the reply came stiffly.

And off he went again.

With a quiet huff that Stoick didn’t notice, Rúni laid his head down on his paws. Too anyone else, it would have looked like the dragon was ignoring the Viking but Rúni was giving him his utmost attention, lapping up every word like it was the sweetest honey, anything to drown out the terrible whispers in the wind and the fear shuddering in his soul.

“-biting, no clawing-“

_< We have nowhere else to go.  >_

_< No one else would take us in.  >_

“-No exploring the village, no roaring-“

_< No one would help us.  >_

_< I’m scared. I’m SO scared.  >_

_…no one else does…but remember I do…you can ALWAYS come to me, my borka…_

“Hey, are you listening to me!” Stoick snapped.

The humming died in his throat almost before Rúni realized he had been answering. “Uh…”

Then the fear spiked and everything went into overdrive.

Stoick did not understand what was happening when the dragon jumped up like it had been bit on the tail. He didn’t understand what was happening when Thor’s son looked around wildly, pupils slit into needles and teeth on display.

He didn’t need to understand to know that he was about to get attacked. With his boastworthy skills and bravery, Stoick ran forward, leapt out of the way of a purple, crackling ball of fire, and slammed one massive fist straight down on the dragon’s muzzle. The Night Fury’s chin hit the ground with a painful-sounding crack, and Stoick took full advantage of its stunned state to shove it down, all but sitting on its shoulders, and grab the tail that swung at him, yanking it until he almost had enough length to tie it around the dragon’s neck.

The Night Fury screamed and struggled, straining to get up but Stoick had it overpowered. And it knew it.

“Dragon,” Stoick grunted. “DRAGON! RÚNI!”

Nothing. The Night Fury continued to squirm and scream like it was being tortured in his grasp.

_Dear Thor, he doesn’t even recognize his name_ , Stoick realized as the high-pitched, rough hiss assaulted his ears like sandpaper. This squirming wyrm in his grip was not Thor’s son, Rúni, but the Night Fury, the mindless, bloodthirsty war machine that always went for the kill like all the others of its kind. The beast Stoick had always known was there somewhere beneath those black scales and sharp teeth and claws had surfaced at last and it both righted his world and whipped it out from right under his feet.

Because it meant he was right. This was the behavior that he had expected, the behavior of those murdering spawns of Hel. This was familiar and reinforced the hundred-and-one creeds he had lived by since he had been born.

But it meant he was wrong. This was a slave. The hum that permeated the air, pleasant but threatening because he knew that wasn’t crickets and frogs, but dragons hidden behind the sea stacks and high in the fog just waiting to attack, had grown into a low-pitched rumble. A very similar, low-pitched rumble to the one the dragon had been making just before he went wacko. That rumble, he was sure, was the key.

And if the only thing Rúni was hearing was ‘come and leave,’ then Stoick would eat Gobber’s knickers when they got back.

So if this was the behavior of an enslaved dragon as Thor had said, then what was the behavior of a free dragon?

_The same_ , his mind whispered darkly. _It’s a FREE dragon forcing them to do this. Why would the other dragons be any different?_

He looked down at the Night Fury, which was now emitting a low wail, eyes fixed on the sky ahead of them.

_A fluke_ , Stoick told himself, _the product of a civilized society in a monster’s form._ Rúni was the Hiccup of the dragons: awkward, stuttering, uncomfortable around him, annoyingly sarcastic, accident-prone, and destructive.

_Miss him,_ the thought sailed across Stoick’s mind lazily, halting all the others (Is the village doing well? Has Astrid had trouble with anyone?) behind it.

“Gah!” a strained voice said from beneath him. “GET OFF ME!”

Stoick’s head snapped down. “…Rúni?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the dragon wheezed. “Gods, get off! You…weigh more…than…a…PREGNANT…Gronkle!”

Stoick leapt off the dragon like he’d been burned. The dragon took a huge and, in Stoick’s opinion, overdone gasp of air.

“Oh, gods, what did you do, sit on me?!”

There was a slightly awkward pause.

“Okay, I do not weight THAT much!” Stoick snapped, suddenly defensive. Hiccups indeed.

“The timbers of the floor are sagging beneath your weight, O Fat One,” Rúni snapped back. “Maybe they should start calling you ‘Stoick the Vast, O Feel His Weight and Tremble, Ugh Ugh!”

Stoick turned a dark shade of red. “It’s muscle, and if they can handle _your_ weight, then they can handle _mi_ -“

Stoick broke off abruptly when he looked down and saw that he was, indeed, making the timbers strain. It was like they were trying to support a catapult with a hulking mound of boulders next to it.

Boulders. Stone. Draugr were creatures of the earth, with skin like stone and a weight to match.

With slightly shaky fingers, Stoick uncapped one of the potions Loki had made and took a few swigs. Something it looked like he should have done a little more often.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, putting it away. “Let’s just focus on getting back to Ber-Oh, Hel,” he cursed, receiving the third reason to have a heart attack that night.

Rúni let loose a whine and curled up on the deck, doing a remarkable imitation of a black boulder himself.

A massive flock of dragons cut through the air towards them, the wingbeats of Nightmares and Nadders and buzzing wings of Gronkles a dull roar overhead. They carried with them a massive amount of livestock, dead yaks and sheep clutched tightly in their claws. And they formed a massive trail in the sky, coming unmistakably from the direction that Stoick’s ship was headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUUUH...
> 
> I did it! I DID IT! Despite the chaos of birthdays, nausea, and preparing for house guests, I GOT A CHAPTER OUT! YAY ME!  
> And now, back to work. This did not actually take quite as much time as usual (could you tell?) so maybe there's hope?  
> Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing @cgsmithmo! I'm really glad you understand and really happy to hear you liked that last chapter :)
> 
> ~SheisaCShelz


	21. Raid Start

Had anyone been around to see it, they would have been mightily impressed at how Hiccup leaped into action at the first sounds of the raid.

The minute something caught fire with a mighty roar, Hiccup’s eyes snapped open. His heart jumpstarted and took off, pumping like it was possessed. He literally threw the blanket off and jumped to his feet from his little cot, hands grasping blindly for his apron and snagging it on the first try. He was out of his backroom in precisely 3.2 seconds, tying the apron strings as Gobber stumped out with a war cry to wake the dead. The older smith had his favorite longsword Bertha in his one hand and a double-headed axe on his left, and he didn’t so much as glance at the other man as he hobbled into the fray.

Hiccup immediately threw open the service window and rolled Gobber’s cart to the side of the smithy as a free-for-all weapons buffet. His hands knew the routine, went through the motions just like it was any other raid.

It was not just like any other raid.

First, they were missing half of their people. _Half_. Hiccup didn’t care what anyone said: numbers mattered. There was a big difference between getting backed into a corner by the twins, and getting backed into a corner by the twins, _and into Snotlout_. Numbers freaking MATTERED, and the Vikings were spread too far and too thin.

Second, they were missing their chief, so even if numbers DIDN’T count (brains over brawn, fight smarter not harder, and all those other adages only Hiccup gave a flying spoon about)…well, they were still screwed. There was no organization as Vikings ran around willy nilly, doing what they did best. Dragons fell left and right as a couple more blew up the roof to the armory and another flock flew off with some sheep. Go team.

Hiccup’s hands flew as he juggled weapons, pulling in damaged ones and flinging out hastily-sharpened ones.

And third, Hiccup was _scared_. It wasn’t the twitching-at-every-noise type of scared, or the nibbling-things-in-the-dark-unknown type of scared, where your mind played tricks on you. It wasn’t a type of scared that could be reasoned with, because damn it all, he’d done this a million times! _What the Hel, Haddock, get a grip!_

But blind, petrifying panic bubbled up and overflowed no matter how hard he tried to clamp down on it. His chest felt faint, and he felt almost ill with how fast his heart was racing. He struggled to take even breaths. His fingers trembled uncontrollably. He couldn’t get his eyes to focus. It was like his body had been ripped away from him – his mind screamed, scorned, reasoned, tried to grapple with this irrational, idiotic, all-encompassing and unhelpful fear, and yet his body just wasn’t getting the message. It trembled like a deaf rabbit about to keel over from an over-stressed, exploded heart.

This is perhaps why, when he found a small hand wrapped around the handle of the axe he was reaching for, he responded in a decidedly un-Hiccup type of way.

As fast as a cobra, his left hand reached out and gave the fingers such a resounding smack that the owner whipped them out of sight faster than he could blink.

“Ow!”

Hiccup was already back at the service window, hefting the axe through with a grunt at Ack.

When he turned around again, he was confronted by the manliest little seven-year-old ever to exist. Gustav had his hands balled into fists, his admittedly unimpressive chest puffed out, and was scowling up at him.

“Hey, Useless!” he called in the absolute best imitation of Snotlout imaginable. Hiccup’s face immediately fell flat as Gustav held out a hand. “We need some weapons!” On cue, the small crowd of five to nine-year olds behind him crossed their arms and looked up at him demandingly.

“What you need,” Hiccup’s mouth shot off before his brain could even finish processing that sentence, “is a bunch of pacifiers. They’re in the wooden box under the table over there,” he added. Unable to stand still, he grabbed a mace, barely noticing the weight as he took it to the anvil.

“Pa-buh-We aren’t _babies!_ ” Gustav spat scornfully. “We’re born WARRIORS! Right, men?!”

A couple of half-hearted wild cheers met his words. The five-year-old sniffled uncertainly and looked around with big eyes.

Gustav dropped all the pretense. “Come ON, guys, that’s our parents out there! They’re losing, and we have to help! They need us! We have to fight! GRAB A WEAPON! LET’S GO!”

He had barely touched the axe’s handle when a hand whipped out, grabbed him by the wrist, and flung him away from the weapons rack. The edge of a stool slammed into his back painfully and Gustav found himself staring up at Useless, the ‘wimpiest, worst handicap of a Viking ever to walk Berk’s shores’ according to his mother. But Useless was suddenly very intimidating. He wasn’t huge and muscled, but he was still an adult and Gustav felt like a tiny mouse as Hiccup towered over him, mouth a hard line and eyes angry slits.

“YOU,” Hiccup proclaimed, pointing a long finger right at Gustav’s chest, “are not going ANYWHERE except to the Great Hall! You want to help? Then don’t die! There is a TIME and a PLACE and this isn’t it! You go out on that battlefield,” he said, heart tugging painfully, “and at best you’ll be the one to die at the claws of some Gronkle who saw a snack!”

If only.

“At worst, you’ll be responsible for your parent’s death because he was so busy protecting YOU, he didn’t protect HIMSELF! _Use your head!”_ Hiccup snapped, sharply giving the child a light smack to the head without so much as a thought – just like Gobber used to do to him. Oh irony and hypocrisy.

“But…but I want to fight,” came the small whisper.

“And I want my Dad back!” Hiccup snapped out. “Get to the Great Hall!” He looked up and out into a burning field full of sharp claws and the odd Viking leaping about. One was staring back at him though. “HOFFERSON! See that they get there!”

The older woman jumped, her beautiful axe spinning to her left hand as she leapt forward to corral the kids into a tight group. The five-year-old grabbed the hem of Mrs. Hofferson’s skirt immediately.

“Stay together! If you see anything tell me!” the woman commanded, starting to move.

Just before they swept out, Gustav jumped when a heavy sword was thrust in his hands. He stared up, wide-eyed, at Hiccup.

“That dagger’s for protecting yourselves. Probably won’t do you much good,” the blacksmith guessed with a casual shrug that sent chills up the youngling’s back, “but possibly better than nothing. Try not to die like the last Gustav, okay?”

Gustav had scarcely a second to stare up at him in confusion before Mrs. Hofferson barked, "GO!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned! There are two chapters left on the raid, and I'm hoping to get them out within the upcoming few days. Possibly another one up today. I considered putting the entire raid in one chapter, but the various points of view and awaiting readers changed my mind.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and especially for reviewing!  
> @cgsmithmo - The moment approaches ;)  
> @Ottolla - Breaks are good times to check for updates. Love your enthusiasm!  
> @Trebeh - I'm not on Fanfiction.net much anymore, but I am working to get the story up there. (Lost my paper keeping my files all organized at the moment, but it'll get updated soon enough!) Thanks a bunch for the massive compliment! It means a lot to me to hear that I'm succeeding :)


	22. Last Chance

The Council was in the town center at the heart of the village just below the absent Chief’s house.

“Let the beasts come! We’ll defend the town to the end!” Spitelout snarled nobly, bristling with weapons and glory. Nadders shot fire behind him and his admittedly chiefly cape flared in the heat waves as he waited for his foes to flock towards him, like some defiant, righteous Hero of Old. It was a very inspiring sight.

“Ya idiot!” Gobber cried, twirling his axes expertly and viciously amputating a Gronkle’s wing before slamming the flat of the blade into its eyes. The beast howled as it went down and Gobber immediately hobbled off to the next dragon, spinning his axe again to throw a fireball off course. The near-casual way the crazy old cuckoo fought, deftly exploiting every opening, flawlessly pulling off every move, demanded respect. “Let the town burn! We hafta save the armory!”

“But the armory’s in the opposite direction of the storage house!” Mulch eyed the sky warily, and leaped when something hissed behind him. Reacting faster than any man that fat had a right to, he clubbed the Zippleback head in a blink, instantly sending it down and earning the ire of its howling twin. Mulch decapitated it with another blunt blow and then went back to staring up at the dragons in the sky. “We have to save what we’ve gathered!”

“The dragons always go for the sheep! They’re our top priority!” Phlegma yelled as she was tackled head-on by a Nadder. She landed flat on her back but nimbly shoved her foot in its face and slammed her other foot into the side of its jaw. With a final twist of her legs, the beast’s neck snapped.

Snotlout’s breath shortened. “Gah!” he yelled, hurling the horn he’d used to call the Council to the town center straight into an incoming Nightmare’s face. The beast stopped short and shook its head, one pupil larger than the other and head tilted like it was trying to figure out which way was up again.

Another Viking ran straight by, yelling. “Who do I report to?!” Knucklehead cried, drawing the Nightmare’s attention and he yelped when the beast gave chase. “WHO DO I REPORT TO!” His voice faded out as he disappeared amid the houses.

“Well we can’t do all of them! We don’t have enough people!” Gobber screamed at another Nadder as he bashed it over the head repeatedly before flinging it on the ground. “We’re going to have to choose!”

“Get to the storage house!”

“Flocks!”

“We have to vote!” Spitelout cried.

“Are you out of your MIND!” Gobber demanded. “This isn’t some closed off where we can scratch our heads and sit on our bums, this is a battlefield! We have to decide!”

“Only way that’ll happen is if we vote!” Phlegma called back. “Quickly! Flocks!”

“Food storage!”

“Armory!”

“Great Hall!” Spitelout hollered. He looked around. Surely they’d win this. His son would, of course, back him up. “Snotlout!” When there was no answer, he spared a glance around the square and a truly thunderous scowl crossed his face. “SNOTLOUT!”

A trail of dust was the only sign his son had been there.

Snotlout’s breath came in gasps as his feet pounded against the packed, frozen earth. Some instinct drove him forward and he barely gave the dragons roaring by a passing glance, too intent on reaching his destination.

Hiccup was doing a shoddy repair job on a sword, hands still shaking, when something crashed into the smithy. He leaped like a startled deer and twisted his head wildly to find his cousin, of all people, in his smithy.

“HICCUP!” Snotlout staggered a bit, almost tripping over the pile of fallen weapons at his feet. “Hiccup, you’re smart, what do we do!”

Hiccup’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Snotlout bounced up and down in a way eerily reminiscent of a very excited or a very scared Fishlegs about to soil his britches.

“Come on!” the burly boy begged, actually begged, his scrawny cousin. “Just tell me what to do!” His eyes darted around, distracted by neon flames and roars outside, as he entered full panic mode. “HICCUP, WHAT DO WE DO!”

Hiccup’s hand whipped out for the second time that night and smacked somebody upside the head. “Snotlout! First, we stop panicking! We do NOT panic!” He took a deep breath, heart still trembling as it pumped faster and faster. But the beat was changing, because while there was fear, something else was running through his veins, too.

Hiccup squashed the feeling. Best not to get his hopes up.

“Second, WHY the _Hel_ are you asking ME? He-llooo~!” Hiccup gestured to himself – _all_ of himself. “Walking disaster-“ he pointed at Snotlout “-brilliant new council member.” And then, in a voice much nastier than he could ever recall using, he added almost bitterly, “I think it’s pretty clear who should be calling the shots around here.”

Snotlout was still staring at him like he held all the answers to hunger and world peace.

Hiccup rolled his eyes, even as his arms tingled and his blood raced. This wasn’t happening. This _was not_ happening. “Oh my gods! SNOTLOUT! GET OUT THERE AND-AND _FIGHT_ , FOR VALHALLA’S SAKE!”

He was utterly dumbfounded when the beefy boy screamed back, “That’s **NOT!** WORKING!” Snotlout ran his hands through his hair, knocking his helmet askew and pulling the dirty strands so that they stuck out in the most unflattering way. “Gods, you’re so smart but you don’t _understand!_ The Council is _USELESS!_ Dad wants to defend the town, Gobber wants to protect the armory, Phlegma the sheep and Mulch the fish! Can’t you see?! We’re a bloody sinking ship, the S.S. Leaderless, going down in flames!”

Both boys flinched when something impacted the smithy’s roof.

“So LEAD!” Hiccup demanded, shoving a mean-looking spiked mace into his hands. “Get out there, and LEAD, SNOTLOUT!”

The very idea seemed to freak out Snotlout more than anything and the boy gave him an ‘are-you-insane?’ look. “WHAT ARE YOU, NUTS?! I CAN’T LEAD! I CAN’T SAVE US! NONE OF US CAN!”

“What, and you think _I CAN?_ ” Hiccup asked incredulously.

(He could. He really could, he just needed a _chance_.)

(Shut _up,_ he hissed. No you _can’t_ , you fool.)

Snotlout stared at him for a moment, and it had to be the most pensive expression Hiccup had ever seen on his face.

“I thought you would at least _try_.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Hiccup was nearly deafened by the triumphant siren song soaring through his blood.

“Aesir damn it all to Niflheim and back,” he finally stated. “Give me that mace and grab a bucket of water. Also a bunch of rope. And there’s a crossbow in the back, go get it.”

Snotlout was just turning when Hiccup added, completely calm, “Oh, and by the way, I hate you.”

________________________________________________________________________________

Ruffnut slipped.

Oh, it wasn’t her feet that slipped. She darted forward with unerring balance, the balls of her feet gaining plenty of traction on the grassy ground. She raised her spear, aim perfect despite her pounding heart, and bounded up, leaping off the man’s shoulder. She threw the spear with all her might straight into the sparking dragon’s mouth – _no scales, no protection_ – killing it instantly.

The other head screeched and swung around.

“DAD!” she screamed. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Bucket stared at her, confused. “Who’s Dad?” he pondered.

With a snarl, she leapt in front of him and pulled out her knife. The gassy head startled and flared its spikes, then hissed at her in outrage and spewed its noxious fumes right in her face. She snarled right back at it – _what, you think you’re the only one in pain?!_ she thought bitterly– and whipped her butchering knife out. Her eyes stung as she waited in the cloud.

_Always be on your guard_ , she remembered, her father’s voice sharp with warning, certain. _In a cloud of gas, a Zippleback always attacks from – behind!_

“HYAAGH!” she roared, whipping around and blindly grabbing a long spike. The dragon screeched and Ruffnut’s feet left the ground as it thrashed. She nimbly swung her way up onto the back of its neck – _Safe Spot #3, only for one-headed dragons_ – and began sawing. No matter how hard the dragon thrashed, it couldn’t shake her, and soon enough, it fell, nearly crushing her feet.

She refused to meet the man’s eyes as she tested her aching legs and gingerly patted her hip where she’d have an enormous bruise the next morning. She calmly collected her spear and wiped her knife on the ground, and –

“Come on. Bucket,” she said, helping the man up. Some of the confusion in his eyes – blue, just like theirs, why couldn’t he see it? – ebbed.

“Thanks, lass. That was mighty frightening. I think – I think I’d better get to the Great Hall,” Bucket stuttered.

Ruffnut rubbed a piece of grit out of her eye. “I’ll make sure you get there safely,” she promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Sheisa


	23. Raid End

As it turned out, they did not get to carry out the half-baked plan Hiccup had concocted on the spot. The raid was short, the unprotected village full of easy pickings. The raiders, heavily laden with their precious prizes, faded into the sky, tails twisting like snakes, well before dawn.

Hiccup dropped numbly back onto the ground, crossbow and arrows slung over his shoulder, eyes unseeing. His fingers trembled as he mechanically began to put the weapons away, stepping around the enormous Monstrous Nightmare carcass at the forge’s front door.

It was difficult to sort out the mess of emotions flooding him in the wake of the raid. He really just wanted to sleep and forget the day, forget the tangle, and wake up ready to face the next one.

The moment his feet were back on the ground, Snotlout flipped around so his back was to the smithy’s wall and braced himself against the ladder, breaths deep and labored. He wiped some blood and sweat off his forehead and cringed at the sight of the Nightmare, its brains squashed flat and oozing out of the crushed head. He unconsciously tried to rub the ghostly feeling of slimy squish off on his tunic. Three Nadders were on the other side, all with crushed pipes. And his side ached where he had rammed it into the chimney trying to escape their lethal bolts of fire. He felt bruised, battered, and ready to sleep for a week.

He was so out of it, it took him a few moments to hear the thuds of heavy boots and peg legs approaching, and even then, Hiccup had to call his attention to it.

“Oh great,” his cousin muttered in his old, useless way, pausing as he picked up a hammer from the ground. “Angry Vikings. That’s never good.”

Snotlout’s heart iced over when he saw his father at the head of the bunch and Hiccup swore his cousin turned whiter than freshly fallen snow.

“SNOTLOUT!” Spitelout was a dark shade of puce, and his face was twisted with such fury that Snotlout almost didn’t recognize the man. The respected Jorgensen walked – no, stalked – towards his son with supreme anger burning in his eyes. His scowl was perhaps even more terrifying than his late brother’s. He had a mace gripped tightly in one hand and his cape swished behind him with every step, revealing the rest of the Council at his back. They all looked to be on varying levels of displeased – even Mulch, who couldn’t look angry if he tried. Phlegma looked especially dangerous with her incredibly sharp, double-headed, and very bloody axe in her hand. A number of warriors trailed behind, muttering amongst themselves and eyeing Snotlout in a way that made him feel like a lamb about to get torn apart by a pack of wolves.

“You, DISGRACE!” the elder all but spat at the younger Jorgenson, storming up and towering menacingly. Snotlout shrank down. “You COWARD!” Spitelout prodded a damning finger into his son’s chest with every word. “WEAKLING! DISHONORABLE WRETCH!” Spitelout really did spit, the bloody wad of saliva hitting his son square in the chest.

Hiccup watched the display with hooded eyes, hidden emotions roiling, boiling just under the surface.

“FLEEING! Fleeing an enemy in Berk’s Greatest Time of Need! I have never been so _ashamed_ in my entire _life_!” the man hissed, his son flinching with every word. “To think, someone of MY BLOOD turned and FLED! HEL will take your worthless hide!”

Snotlout trembled, head bowed, as Spitelout spoke for the entire congregation to hear. “SNOTLOUT JOR-GEN-SON, I STRIP YOU OF YOUR POSITION AS A COUNCIL MEMBER. YOU ARE DISOWNED, DEAD TO THIS VILLAGE, OUTCASTED FOR YOUR COWARDICE-ARGH!”

In one fluid fit of recklessness, Hiccup threw the hammer he was holding at Spitelout’s feet, right between father and son. The entire congregation stared at it, uncomprehending, for a good five seconds before their eyes turned to the simmering redhead who had thrown it. Only Snotlout didn’t dare so much as twitch a muscle, eyes locked on the hammer.

Hiccup stiffly slipped in between the two and, with a brave calm that had utterly refused to come in the raid, faced down the Viking who looked ready to smite anything that stood in his way. He was all too aware of just how smite-able he was, too, but something inexplicably drove him forward.

“You can’t exile Snotlout.”

Mud-brown eyes widened, even as they stayed glued to the ground.

Spitelout sneered with laughter, eyeing up the useless village runt in an unpleasant manner that made it clear exactly what he thought of him: absolutely nothing. When a simple sneer didn’t put the pathetic excuse for a fishbone in his place, Spitelout threw back his head and laughed hard enough to make his belly quake and his armor shake, clearly letting the boy know that he was nothing but a joke.

When that also didn’t make the boy quail, make him shrink in on himself like a scolded child and disappear into the crowd like a cowed dog, Spitelout met his eyes and, hardly intimidated by the fierce glare, growled out, “Are you challenging me, boy-o?”

The village held its breath.

“I’m seriously questioning your leadership,” Hiccup announced. “As should everyone else!”

“And who are you to question me!” Spitelout roared. “WHO!” The word was swallowed by the silent village and Hiccup tensed, sensing the danger of a storm that wasn’t quite here yet. And when he didn’t answer, Spitelout answered for him.

“You’re no one, _Hiccup_.” The way he said his name made it sound like he was twisting a knife in the heart of a deer. “You’re not the Heir, remember? Not even a Council Member. Not even a Proper Viking! So if I were you, I would disappear back to my forge and _know my place_.”

“And if I were you,” Hiccup shot back, voice somehow steady but at the same time rolling like magma within a volcano about ready to blow, “I would take a moment to think before leaping into action like a limpet-guzzling, troll-faced, mucus-spewing SON OF A THREE-LEGGED YAK!”

With a roar, Spitelout reached forward to grab the insolent cur. He dragged the tall boy down so that he was glaring right into his eyes. “Do you want to say that again, boy-o?”

Hiccup’s mind raced, even if his gaze gave nothing away. He had slipped. He had let that anger, terror, that thing he couldn’t quite name show and now he had to watch his words carefully.

“No,” he said as clearly as he could. “I want to say that you made a mistake, and that you need to own up to it. And that Snotlout was the only person who acted sensibly this raid!” He lowered his voice, and said for his uncle’s ears and for his uncle’s ears alone, “Do you want to exile your son? Do you want to make him a smear on the family’s name, or will you swallow your pride, admit to a minor mistake, and let him raise your house higher?”

The conflict was clear as day in the Viking’s grey eyes, and Hiccup felt very much like a dead man as his uncle’s grasp tightened. Spitelout was the sort of man who had trouble letting go – especially of things like power and glory. The type of man who was loathe to leave his kingly position, even as his own years passed and it came time to hand things off to his own blood. The type who would cling to every scrap of glory, every shred of power until he laid on his deathbed and drew his final breath. So Hiccup was treated to a show as he watched the man struggle at the thought of sacrificing some glory for himself, even for some more power he would gain later on, even for his own son.

But though it clearly burned him beyond words, he let the boy go and announced, “Speak up then.”

Hiccup straightened. “While the Council was torn by indecisiveness and therefore was achieving nothing,” Hiccup began, and maybe it wasn’t that smart to use so much snark but to Hel with it, to Hel with them all, “Snotlout took action. Instead of staying to argue and let the dragons carry on with the raid, he identified a critical part of Berk – the forge – and he protected it. Look at it!” Hiccup flung a hand at it. “It’s the best looking building on Berk, including the Great Hall, and that is made of solid stone! We still have a working forge. We can still service weapons, make new ones, and make sure that we aren’t defenseless.” He put a solid hand firmly on the other man’s shoulder. “And you have Snotlout to thank for it.”

“Aye, he’s right-“

“-was a smart move-“

“-can’t exile-“

“-need everyone we’ve got-“

As murmurs swept through the villagers, Spitelout cleared his throat and stood at his full height. Catching the larger Viking’s intentions, Hiccup hopped away just in time to miss a harsh shove that would have sent him stumbling to the ground as Spitelout approached his son.

Snotlout trembled ever so slightly and refused to look up at his father. He was weak. He was cowardly. And it burned him so, but he couldn’t. Just couldn’t. Grey eyes bore into his unseeing ones, the rage palpable and real, even if the phantom eyes weren’t. The intention in them haunted him like a dragon about to swallow him whole.

His father’s voice was gruff. “Is this true, son? Was this your plan?”

By some miracle of the gods, Snotlout managed to fill his voice with a surety he didn’t feel. Any sign of weakness at this point, the slightest tremor, and he’d be torn down at home later, once they were in private and away from judging eyes. “Yes, sir. Like Hiccup said.”

Spitelout shifted, and swallowed. It took a while for the pride to go down. “In that case…well done.”

Snotlout couldn’t help it when his father placed a heavy hand right where Hiccup’s had been. He flinched, and yelped, and then stared up at his father with fear.

Spitelout’s gaze hardened again. Not murderous as before, but-dear Odin, Thor save him-!

Ever observant, and unusually protective, Hiccup swooped in. “Come on, Snotlout, I’ve got something cold for your shoulder. I know you injured it fighting those three Nadders at the same time. Stop being so stubborn and get in here.”

It was hardly an acceptable excuse – an injured shoulder? Really? What Viking paused work just because of a bruised shoulder? – but Snotlout wordlessly let his cousin guide him into the forge and away from his father’s suspicious eyes.

“Don’t you have a village to fix?” Hiccup shot Spitelout’s way over his shoulder.

The offended leader bristled at the insolent address, pride still severely bruised and eyes speaking of dark things as he watched the two boys enter the forge. “Watch your tongue, boy!”

Hiccup practically had to drag Snotlout to the bench deeper in the smithy, closer to Gobber’s house and further from prying eyes. It seemed like all the strength had been sapped from the other man in his father’s presence, and Hiccup jumped when Snotlout grabbed him by the wrist, hardly expecting it as he turned to get a cold slab of meat from Gobber’s cellar.

“Thanks.”

Hiccup spoke just as lowly, eyes darting in the direction of the village where the sounds of a squabble were already starting up. “You’re welcome.”

Snotlout’s grip was gentle and soft, and his eyes were searching. “Why?”

Hiccup stared back for a moment before he twisted out of the other man’s grip, and Snotlout let him go without an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii. Yeah. Busy student is busy. I hope to write more, but no promises. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers! You guys truly help motivate me :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Sheisa


	24. Arguments and Acting Chiefs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO BACK AND READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. It didn't seem logical, so I fixed it. Sorry.

Of course once the danger had passed, the Council was even MORE useless than before. It was like trying to watch a four-headed dragon go fishing, flying, walking, and sunbathing all at once. Each Head was snapping at each other, hurling accusing words and problems around like leaves in an icy winter gust. Snotlout metaphorically hunkered down and tried to draw his coat over his ears, desperately wishing he had been born in a land where there was no winter and no dragons.

“Food takes priority!” Phlegma, who was responsible for the farm animals, stated fiercely. While she carried the icy, no-nonsense air the Hoffersons were well-known for, she looked about ready to spontaneously combust and end the argument by breaking the Jorgenson’s jaw. “We need to round up the flocks or we’ll lose even more!”

“Aye,” Mulch agreed. He was in charge of the fishing and game. “I agree. We can make one team to round up the flocks and another to salvage what food we can.”

Mild-mannered as he was, no one really heard him.

“We have to rebuild!” Spitelout roared back, spit flying. “Can’t you see, we’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight otherwise! It’s gotten cold enough to be deadly to sleep outdoors!”

_Shit_ , Snotlout thought. So much for that plan.

“Snotlout, what do you think?” Spitelout demanded, caught in a glaring contest with Phlegma.

“I agree with you, Dad,” he answered dully.

No one really heard him, either. Phlegma and Spitelout were well into a shouting match at that point.

Gobber sighed above the snarls. “A team needs to be set on weapons as well!” he shouted above the spitfire argument between the Hofferson and the Jorgenson. “We can’t afford to be defenseless, and it shouldn’t take more than a few people.”

Mulch scoffed. “Do you really think we have the people to spare, Gobber?”

“DO YOU WANT TO SLEEP WITH THE CORPSES!”

“I’D LIKE TO BE ABLE TO EAT THIS WINTER!”

And so it continued.

In a ring around them, the remaining villagers waited for orders, and listened to the worries of the Heads, and grew more worried in turn as the gravity of the situation began to hit them. The dragons were gone, but winter was still coming. Whispers swirled around as the Council, deaf to their audience, argued on.

Hiccup lounged against the forge, arms crossed. His little show of recklessness had left him drained, and skittish, and he grimaced when Phlegma threw a particularly nasty curse the Jorgenson’s way. Snotlout had been right. It was clear that the Council, while a leading entity on Berk, was useless and that what they really needed was a Chief. Acting Chief, in this case.

But it really wasn’t his place to say anything, now was it. So he kept his mouth shut, dozed slightly against the forge wall even as plans and insults and dreams swirled through his mind, and waited with everyone else.

Edna Hofferson, mother of the Chief, did not. She let the Council members argue for about two more minutes and then decided enough was enough. Like a ghost, she stepped out of the ring of Vikings, her proud posture and sharp eyes drawing everyone’s attention. She let the butt of her axe fall onto the stone beneath her feet with a sharp _CLANG!_ that made the Council members jump, and then pinned each of them with a disapproving look that made their mouths snap closed faster than a mouse trap.

“Arguing is getting us nowhere,” she stated calmly. “A decision has to be made. It is clear that you cannot make one, so I will.”

“WHAT!” Jorgenson burst out. “You have NO right-!”

“I have every right,” Edna returned sharply.

“Just because _your_ daughter is the Chief, does _not_ mean-“

Thor above, a Jorgenson truly could test a Hofferson’s patience like nothing else. Impatiently, Edna raised her axe to slam it into the stone again, but someone beat her to it.

The solid thunk of wood against the ground made the Vikings part ways respectfully as the Elder approached. Her gnarled staff twisted high enough to reach everyone’s helmets, even if the aged woman had shrunk and hunched so much that she hardly met anyone’s waist.

“Gothi,” Spitelout appealed, only to be silenced with another thunk and a glare.

Once she had planted herself in the center, she began to draw in the soil. Gobber stepped up.

“Uh huh…ah….well let’s not be hasty! That’s rude!”

“What did she say, Gobber?” Mulch asked.

Gobber looked put out. “She says that we’re behaving like squabbling children and as unsightly as a dragon’s bum!”

_WHACK!_ Gothi glared and tapped the sentence again.

Gobber shook his head and adjusted his helmet. “Ah…hold on…oh, she asked where the acting Chief is. You know,” he commented lightly, “your drawing has gotten much worse-not the face!”

Spitelout looked up and frowned with the rest of the Council. “There isn’t one. The Chief left the Council in charge.”

“Well,” Gobber said, rubbing his temple as he read the dirt drawings, “she says we need one.”

“No one has the authority to declare an acting Chief,” Phlegma pointed out.

Gothi raised an eyebrow at her.

Gobber leaned over and squinted again. “She says, ‘If she has such a say in picking the Chief, then she has just as much right to choose an acting Chief.” He straightened. “Well, makes sense to me. I’ll go with that.”

“Aye,” Mulch agreed.

“Very well,” Phlegma said, looking displeased at the lack of law and order but willing enough.

Spitelout looked even more unhappy but didn’t dare say a word when two Hoffersons were staring him down. “I will put it to the Elder as well then. For the sake of agreement.”

Snotlout blinked in surprise when he realized the Elder was looking at him and that he had to speak up too. “I agree,” he added hastily.

The corner of Gothi’s mouth curled in what one might have called a smile. Looking almost smug, she began to draw on the ground…

“The acting Chief will be…” Gobber squinted again at the mess. “A fish and a cup of wine?”

Gothi didn’t even bother to whack him this time, merely rolled her eyes like a teenager and put her hand over them.

“HICCUP?” Gobber realized in astonishment.

A deafening chorus of ‘NO’s and other sounds of despair and protest rose up from all around them, making Hiccup startle, slip, and knock over a pair of swords that had been leaning against the forge with him.

Edna took action immediately, and swung her weapon head straight into the stone. She winced at the thought of the abuse her beautiful ax was going through, but squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Are you questioning the wisdom of the Elder?”

“WISDOM!” Spitelout spluttered. “This isn’t WISDOM, it’s SENILITY!”

Phlegma scowled. “For once, I agree with Jorgenson.”

Mulch scratched his beard and looked unsure.

“Hiccup has two years of training to be Chief under his belt,” Edna argued. “He knows the procedure for handling a raid better than any of us and can direct us efficiently and effectively until Ast-the Chief’s return.” She could feel her sister’s glare boring into her, but knew her well enough to know that she would go along with her. After all, Edna had always been the slightly sharper one of the two, and Phlegma had learned long ago to trust her sister’s judgment. She really needed to deal with those darned Jorgensons.

Well, THAT darned Jorgenson. While Snotlout would support his father, Edna knew he wasn’t the blindly ambitious puppet he had once been. And she sensed Hiccup wasn’t the blindly fumbling child he had been, either. Something tickled in the back of her mind. The children had changed, and no one else could see it. They were too blinded by Snotlout’s boastful brawn to see that it was an act and the young adult was beginning to question his family. They didn’t see how Hiccup, the disaster-prone twig, had learned when to obey orders and when to stand defiantly. They didn’t know Astrid well enough to see how she had become consumed by her perfectionism.

Not even her husband had spotted that.

“Are we forgetting a couple of years?” Spitelout demanded, spreading his hands and appealing to the village. “A couple raids, a couple winters when Hiccup ran us nearly to ruin?”

The village was clearly in agreement.

“Only because he tried to make our lives better and deviated from the traditions,” Edna interjected. She looked over the crowd and spotted the young adult next to the forge, and forced him to meet her eyes. “But he knows now not to try new things when there’s so much at risk. Am I right, Hiccup?”

Wordlessly, the man nodded.

“And you will follow Stoick’s instructions exactly?”

The man nodded again without hesitation.

“Then what do we need to do?”

Edna did not miss the way the Elder eyed her thoughtfully as she listened to Hiccup. She also did not miss Phlegma’s steamed ‘we are going to talk later about this!’ look as she led by example and began listening to Hiccup’s instructions. She made a mental note to keep an eye on the Jorgensons when Spitelout shoved his way out to help reclaim the livestock, head down and lip curled, and was pleased to at least see Snotlout supporting his cousin. And she did not miss how Hiccup followed Stoick’s method to a t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know everyone wanted to see Hiccup in charge, and rest assured, it approaches, but I could not see it happening last chapter. I really plopped all those words down and posted it so people would know I didn't drown in a loch or anything. But I felt I had to explain Edna, so hence, this chapter.
> 
> Onwards!  
> ~SheisaCShelz


	25. Largely in Charge

One day, Hiccup sat himself down in a cove and gave himself a stern talking to. He quite firmly told himself that he should be happy. He had Gobber, who was generally pretty good company even if Hiccup was convinced he had eaten his own foot given how many times he shoved it in his mouth and that all his dragon stories were loads of hooey. He had his job at the smithy, which would earn him a very comfortable life until the end of his days, and no one could take that from him because that required skill that frankly no one wanted to learn. And he had his hobbies, which were most un-Viking-like but were fun ways to occupy his time and make him forget everything he hated in the world. And that was everything he needed.

He didn’t need to kill a dragon, he told himself. He decided that he didn’t need the village’s respect, or their friendship! And who knew, maybe he’d earn more respect if he DIDN’T try to kill dragons and make them lose food and give people concussions and broken bones and destroy everyone’s houses. Which would be great, but really, it didn’t matter in the end because he didn’t need the village to like him.

Really.

It was all a very confusing conversation to be honest, but in the end, he did convince himself that he had no reason to want for anything.

(Of course, he had to give himself this talk at least three times a week and take precautions not to dangle the other Vikings’ cheerful camaraderie in front of his nose and pretend that everything was all fine and dandy as they glared at him with disdainful ire, pretend that it all wasn’t there and therefore couldn’t be beyond his reach.)

But now, right now, Hiccup was all over the place. The village was listening to him.

The village.

Listening.

To HIM.

“Phlegma,” he commanded, “take a team of fifteen and an Ingerman and start reorganizing the herds. Ingerman!”

A hand was raised. “Keep count and bring your records to the Great Hall to be sorted by Fishlegs when he gets back.”

Looking none too happy, but eyeing Edna who stood behind Hiccup like an emperor’s bodyguard, Phlegma the Fierce nodded and the circle of Vikings started to deplete.

“Snotlout, walk around the village and report back to me about damages done to the storehouse, the barns, the armory, and the watchtowers.”

Giving his cousin a salute, the stocky man headed off, pretending he didn’t see his father’s scowl.

“Mulch, take a team of twenty and salvage as much as you can from the storehouse. Take another Ingerman or two with you to keep record.”

“Alright,” Mulch nodded, ever agreeable.

The scattering of Vikings was absolutely tiny now.

“Ruffnut,” Hiccup commanded, “take a team of five to start cleaning up the, the bodies. Butcher the dragons, move our dead to the top of the docks to be seen off, and bring the injured to the Great Hall to be seen to by Gothi.”

Ruffnut nodded and the Elder thudded forward with her staff.

“Gobber, you’re on weapons duty.”

“Aye aye, apprentice mine!” the older man proclaimed cheerfully and stomped off to start recollecting and sorting the weapons scattered around.

“Spitelout…”

The older man glared, and Edna glared right back, tilting her axe so that the firelight bouncing off it gleamed.

“…Aye…” the man ground out.

“…Start rebuilding the fences for the livestock,” Hiccup decided. “Once Snotlout comes back, we’ll get started on rebuilding the village.”

Positively fuming, Spitelout turned on his heel and left without a word. Besides Hiccup and Edna, the clearing was left empty.

This was his chance, Hiccup thought as he watched Phlegma bellow, Ruffnut tiptoe, Gothi thud away, Snotlout jog, and Spitelout stomp. He could make life so much better. He could command them to build his blueprints for a fire-dousing system. Or install those new features on the catapults. Lay new aerial traps for the dragons! Berk, tattered and dark, stood before him but all Hiccup could see was Berk as it could be – magnificent, with new inventions and infrastructure and everything he could give them covering every roof, every patch of dirt. The mirage gave him a sense of peace and fulfillment, the same way a Gronkle head on a spear did for a Viking. A sense of true accomplishment and pride, and he could see how he would walk down the square and be greeted with smiling faces, people beckoning him over to come help with this repair and that device.

Hiccup scowled, crossed his arms, and dug his fingernails into his skin as hard as he could through his shirt, trying to distract himself. They’d never do it, he told himself, gaze as focused and intent as a bird of prey. And even if they did, it’s not like anything would work. And when it all fails, everything will just be even worse.

Not that it matters! he reminded himself.

“I don’t want it anyway,” he muttered to himself, lowly enough so that even Edna couldn’t hear him.

Oh, right, Edna. That was a good distraction and Hiccup latched onto it like a barnacle to the underside of a boat.

“So when exactly did this little alliance between you and Gothi start?” Hiccup asked. When Edna gave a cool, ‘I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about’ look, he huffed. “You know, this joint effort wherein you both try to boot me into a position of power that we all know I shouldn’t be in?” Another thought came to him suddenly. “Or are you just hoping I’ll screw up and the village will scalp me and Astrid will never have to marry me?” It seemed just like the thing an overprotective parent would do, and was as cunning as the Hofferson house was known to be.

“You were merely the most qualified to be acting chief,” Edna responded, somehow effortlessly sharp and yet smooth at the same time. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and did nothing to assuage his fear. She dismissed his accusations with enviable ease, neither denying nor confirming them. She put her axe away across her back. “No one else had any experience.”

Hiccup squinted at her. “And the many counts of mass havoc and destruction on my résumé didn’t turn you away because…”

“Do you not want the position?” Edna asked curtly.

“No!”

“You hesitated.”

“…I did not,” Hiccup denied.

There were a couple seconds of silence.

“I didn’t make any claim for the chiefdom,” Hiccup reminded her.

“All that tells me is that you can put your village over yourself,” the matriarch responded, light blue eyes surveying the village before turning to Hiccup. “But you still want that power.”

Hiccup licked his lips and avoided her gaze. The way she had said it, so certain, the same way someone would say, ‘Dragons are pests,’ made it seem pointless to deny it. It also made him feel like he was leaving a terrible impression, and Hiccup felt like he absolutely had to say _something_ so she didn’t think he was a power-hungry mongrel.

“Do you ever…” he began, unable to look anywhere except the ground as he bared a little bit of a soul to her. “Ever think if only you could do this, this one thing that is so hard but would be so great if only it worked? Like if only I could get the village to install, say, a fire-dousing system,” – he was really harping on this, wasn’t he – “and it would make life so much better! The fire brigade could work so much more efficiently, and we could save so many buildings!” In his excitement, he had started flailing his hands around, gestures punctuating each phrase. Edna stared back at him, unmoved. He couldn’t tell how harshly she was judging him. Actually, her poker face was so good he couldn’t tell if she was judging him at all.

So he quit while he was ahead. “But, I know they’ll never listen to me,” he admitted frankly, deflating. “They probably wouldn’t listen to me even if I was the Chief.”

Edna regarded the crestfallen acting chief thoughtfully. She had always known that the source of the boy’s ambition was a deep desire for accolades and praise, especially from his father. She had also always figured that he just wanted the high status that came with the glory, much like his cousin and too many of the other prideful youths strutting around the island. Strangely, though, it sounded as though Hiccup the Useless just had a deep, dark desire to be…useful.

“They probably won’t ever listen to you,” she offered him, “until you prove you’re worth listening to.”

“And where do I even start with that?” the young man asked, looking at her almost hopefully. “I’ve used up more second chances than any person deserves and I’ve caused more damage than, than the dragons, probably.”

Well well. Edna wondered if he had ever admitted this to anyone before.

“Start small,” she advised. “Don’t go after a Night Fury until you can take a Nightmare, and don’t go after a Nightmare until you can take a Zippleback, and don’t go after a Zippleback until you can take a Nadder, and don’t go after a Nadder until you can take a Gronkle, and don’t go after a Gronkle until you can take on a Terror. And don’t go after the _Terror_ ,” she stressed, adding in the Hofferson two cents, “until you can take on a _tree_.”

The two stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Hiccup had a very, very strange urge to hug the stoic woman. Edna stood stiffly, a little surprised at how easily the old Hofferson adage had flowed out and even more surprised at how happy she felt to share it. Astrid hadn’t needed – correction, hadn’t wanted – any advice in years. So Edna had kept her mouth shut for years, until now.

It was perhaps a strange moment because Hiccup felt like a son and Edna felt like a mother.

As most moments with Hiccup are, it was incredibly awkward before they both turned away and decided to pretend it hadn’t happened despite the fact that it very much had.

__

Astrid was mad.

This is a little like saying ‘yaks are smelly’.

(Yaks are NOT smelly; they stink HORRIBLY. Any vegetation downwind of them withers, and even the flies fear death by smell in their near vicinity.)

The Chief’s anger surpassed the rage of a hurricane as she rushed into the village, far too late to be helpful in any way, and steadily grew as she took in the disaster. She wanted to strangle every dragon that had been in that raid. She wanted to skin them and use their teeth for spears and their hides for clothing and their horns for decoration. She wanted to massacre any dragon that dared threaten her village.

A quiet part of her admitted that this was entirely unreasonable. The dragons were gone. There was nothing to be done about the raid, except pick up and carry on.

But-but she was just so _ANGRY!_

And then. She saw. _Hiccup_ …

“The animals can stand a night out in the weather, and we can hole up in the Great Hall,” Hiccup said, pouring over a map with Spitelout and Snotlout at his side. “We just need to make sure the animals won’t run off, which is why I sent you to do the fences, Spitelout,” (this was said very pointedly), “and we need to rebuild the storage house so the food doesn’t spoil or get blown off or Thor knows what else.”

“That’ll take all night,” Snotlout put in.

Hiccup shrugged. “If that’s the best we can do then that’s the best we can do. We’ll fig-“

_“Ahem.”_

All three men looked up. Snotlout looked rather surprised to see her. Spitelout, who looked like had been chewing on lemons, instantly became delighted. And Hiccup looked like he was about to soil himself.

(Good.)

Astrid didn’t bother to play with her fiancé and give him a chance to figure out what he had done wrong. That guilty little beetle KNEW it, and she was far too livid to play any games.

“What are you doing?” Her words cut through the air like needles.

Spitelout pointed at his nephew. “Hiccup was being Acting Chief in your absence, Chief!” he almost shouted at her. Hiccup flinched.

Astrid advanced menacingly. She didn’t really mean to be menacing – or maybe she did? Her head was buzzing and her sight was hazy. The more she thought of the mess the dragons had left behind and the usurping weed in front of her who had the AUDACITY to even TRY to hinder her, the angrier she became, and the angrier she got, the harder it was to think rationally. She was in no condition to worry about politics, and not in the mood to do anything but sink her axe into the nearest dragon’s windpipe.

“Funny how I don’t recall making him Acting Chief,” she declared, eyes narrowed. “I put the Council in charge.”

“That you did, Chief!” Spitelout commented vehemently from the side, looking quite happy when she whipped her axe around and pointed it at Hiccup.

Hiccup eyed her nervously, highly aware of just how enraged she was as she leaned in so their faces were inches apart.

“What were you thinking?” she hissed. A horrible, horrible thought occurred to her and she jabbed her axe even closer, watching his Adam’s apple bob just millimeters away from the sharp tips. “Just because I asked you to marry me, does not in _any_ way mean you have ANY say in what happens on Berk!” she snarled.

“It-it wasn’t my idea!” he tried, tossing the blame away from him like a disgustingly moth-ridden cloak.

And that made Astrid’s anger soar to new heights. Hers axe disappeared and she grabbed him by the front of his shirt, giving him a hard shake as though she could knock sense into his head. “Man up to your own actions!” she demanded. “Even if it wasn’t your idea, you’re the one playing Chief behind my back!” She let him go abruptly, throwing him back a few steps. “NOW WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO IT!”

“Putting the Council in charge was a mistake.” Astrid straightened with shock. Mrs. Hofferson strode forward and fixed her daughter – her Chief – with an unreadable look. “The Elder and the Council agreed that a group of people cannot make decisions efficiently and put Hiccup in charge temporarily.”

The Chief’s mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, and it looked like she might have started to say ‘Mother’ except chiefs didn’t have mothers and were accountable to absolutely no one. Astrid scrambled to regather her wits.

_“Always leave an Acting Chief in your absence,” Stoick had declared, a meaty hand patting her shoulder as they watched her aunt and Jorgenson argue worse than a two-headed dragon. “Valhalla knows the island will go to Hel in a handbasket if you leave the island in the hands of those two,” he’d chuckled for her ears alone as they walked away._

She closed her eyes. She was still angry. Incredibly, painfully angry (although now at a very different target). And she did not want to apologize, certainly not to Hiccup who owed the entire village an apology and then some. So she did the easiest thing – started the mundane routine of handling the aftermath of a raid.

She had scarcely drawn breath to take charge of the situation when screams cut her off.

In one powerful, fluid move, Astrid had her axe in her hand and was racing to where the screams were coming from. She could dimly hear the others running behind her, and mentally prepared herself for what it could be. An injured dragon may have been playing dead and surprised them. What if a child had been near it? Even an injured dragon could take one down easily! What if the dragons had returned-they couldn’t afford that!

(What if she messed up again – now THAT was something they couldn’t afford, something she absolutely _could not_ let happen-!)

Astrid’s axe fell from senseless fingers. Hiccup’s mouth fell open. Snotlout shrieked, voice hitting a pitch more befitting a young child. Spitelout immediately fell to his knees and muttered a prayer. Edna fell into a battle stance instantly, but didn’t dare engage.

And Stoick, or at least something that looked like Stoick, stared right back at Astrid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has come to work at getting this story done asap...I hadn't realized it's been 3 years, but it certainly feels like it! Thanks especially to my kudo-ers and commenters, and here's to hoping the story is done soon. We've still got a long way to go.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Sheisa


End file.
